


Similar Creatures

by h_lovely



Series: Similar Creatures [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Eventual Romance, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Frottage, Get ready for All The Tropes, Hand Jobs, Illegal Activities, M/M, Oral Sex, Platonic Relationships, Pretty Woman AU, Prostitution, Slow Build, low key pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2018-10-11 02:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10452888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_lovely/pseuds/h_lovely
Summary: "What's your name?""Whatever you want it to be."(Or, Oikawa gets directions from an attractive stranger on a street corner.)





	1. i feel it coming

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entirely self-indulgent crack au that I couldn't get out of my head. Obviously it alines with the movie _Pretty Woman_ , but won't follow the plot exactly and there is no prior knowledge needed of the movie to read this fic. There will be other pairings and tags that I will continue to add (but I bet you can take some wild guesses there) and I can't promise terribly frequent updates, though I will promise to finish what I start here. I will do my best not to half-ass this, but I can't make any promises in regards to inevitable cheese, fluff, smut and terrible tropes.
> 
> So without further ado, enjoy.
> 
> [theme music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFLhGq0060w)  
> 

“You know Oikawa, you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself tonight, which means _not_ working,” a sweet but calculating voice filters over his shoulder into his ear. “This is a cocktail _party_ after all.”

Oikawa, only after finishing the last few words of his latest scathing email, turns to face the voice’s owner with a slicing smile. He taps once more against his poor, abused phone screen before pocketing the device, for the moment at least.

“You’re hovering again, Yahaba-kun,” he croons. “Worrying and fussing like an overprotective mother-hen. It’s very unbecoming on you.”

Yahaba meets him head-on with a sharp gaze of his own. He’s still one of the only people that can seem to handle Oikawa at his bitterest. “Those poorly concealed dark circles under your eyes aren’t exactly doing you any favors either, _Oikawa-san_.”

Oikawa schools his features as best he can as Yahaba fixes him with a knowing stare. His fingers flinch to reach up and rub at his eyes and the bags that have been there for weeks now, but he stops himself by reaching forward to snatch the half-drunk flute of champagne from Yahaba’s grasp instead.

As he’s downing the bubbling liquid he hears a resigned sigh and when Oikawa’s head tilts back down he can see that Yahaba’s shoulders have dipped and his demeanor has shifted. “Have you slept at all this entire trip?” he asks, voice heavy with genuine concern now.

Oikawa shrugs and waves his hand, twisting his fingers in the air, a non-answer. “Don’t you worry about me, I’m doing just fine,” he says, turning his vision out onto the private room filled with investors and businessmen, scantily clad women hanging on their arms, faces flushed with alcohol and talks of money and opportunity.

Yahaba doesn’t bother to reply or argue and Oikawa lets loose his own sigh. “There’s always work to be done,” he murmurs. “I don’t remember the last party or dinner I went to that was simply just for pleasure.”

“Is that why you rented an Aston Martin? For pleasure?”

Oikawa tries not to sputter as he glares at Yahaba’s entirely too smug face. “I can’t have a car?” he scoffs. “I have to take taxis and limousines everywhere while I’m here?”

Yahaba nods like he completely understands. “Oh so it’s like some kind of mid-life crisis.”

Oikawa blanches. “I’m barely thirty!”

Yahaba stares, unimpressed. “You don’t _drive_ , Oikawa.”

“That’s simply not true. I’ve driven—”

“Kindaichi’s moped absolutely does not count.”

“That was years ago!” Oikawa squawks. “I’ve got my license and I’ve got the means. I can drive whatever car I please.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Yahaba says with a smirk and a roll of his eyes.

Oikawa scowls down at the man, using his meager bit of extra height to try and intimidate. “Not more than a minute ago you were concerned for my health and now you hit me with this nasty attitude, really Yahaba—”

Yahaba fits him with a familiar, waxy smile. “The only nasty attitude I have I learned from _you_.”

Oikawa gasps, more for dramatics now than anything else. “Yahaba-kun, how can you disrespect your elders, _your superiors_ like this?”

“We’re a year-and-a-half apart and we’re business partners, so you can quit with all that crap already,” Yahaba explains wearily. “And I _am_ concerned for your health, if you keep running yourself into the ground then not only will you suffer, but Seijou will too. Now I can get you some sleeping pills or something—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Oikawa interrupts, brushing past Yahaba with a new found sort of energy in recognizing that familiar sort of fire in his partner’s eyes. “I think I’ve got just the solution.”

“Really?” Yahaba frowns. “Wait, where are you going?”

“You have given me a great idea!” he announces. “I didn’t originally get the Aston Martin for pleasure, but I think a nice long drive might do a lot to decrease my stress levels.”

“Oikawa you’re going to get yourself killed,” Yahaba growls, charging forward but Oikawa stops him with a dark look over his shoulder.

“You hold down the fort here, Shigeru. I believe in you,” he says slowly, not leaving any room for further argument. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He heads for the front entrance and valet, finally able to bring a palm up to rub at his bloodshot eyes without anyone around to notice.

* * *

Iwaizumi stares at himself in the mirror of his tiny studio apartment bathroom. The light above him is dim and yellow and there’s a crack that scales an entire cross section of the mirror before him, but still when he brushes a hand through the gel in his hair and puts on that roguish smile he’s pretty happy with what he sees. Maybe he’ll actually pick up someone decent tonight. Someone with _real money_ , or at least someone not half-disgusting.

He breathes in deeply one last time, letting it out slowly before shuffling towards the framed tapestry on the wall and sliding up to reach into the fist-shaped hole in the drywall in search of rent money that had been due-up three days ago. But when he pulls back with a considerably light feeling envelope in his fist, Iwaizumi feels his heart drop into his stomach.

“Shit,” he hisses, thumbing through the scant bills crumpled and hastily shoved into the yellowing paper. It’s not enough. It had been enough yesterday and now it’s not.

Oh, if he’s not already dead, Iwaizumi is _so_ going to kill him this time.

Through his red haze Iwaizumi hears his pre-paid cell buzzing from the porcelain countertop and just in time too because he might’ve been punching another hole in the wall to match the one they kept their cash in a second later.

“You need to come get your boy,” Matsukawa’s voice says through the phone when Iwaizumi answers.

“Fucking shit,” he mutters, even though he already knows. “How bad is it this time?”

“Pretty bad,” Matsukawa drones. “They didn’t fuck much with his face at least.”

“Lucky him.” Iwaizumi glares down at the envelope one last time before shoving it back into the wall with enough force to crumble more drywall onto the already grimy floor. “We need rent money.”

“Good thing you can still give a decent blowie with a couple cracked ribs then.”           

Iwaizumi ignores him and instead says, “Don’t let him leave, I’m coming over.”

“You got it, ace,” Matsukawa hums, just before the call disconnects.

When Iwaizumi gets to the bar, a little out of breath from his anger-fueled jog over, he immediately spots Kyoutani across the room propped at a high-top table with Watari standing solidly in front of him, dabbing at a cut on his eyebrow with too-much force and little care for Kyoutani’s raging scowl. Iwaizumi smirks at the scene; _good_ , at least someone else is going to rake him over the coals in Iwaizumi’s absence.

Making his way over to the bar he doesn’t let Kyoutani out of his sight, though the younger man has yet to realize his presence, and turns to the pair of bartenders with a glower.

“Why the fuck do you let him do this?” Iwaizumi grunts.

Matsukawa raises his hands to shoulder height and shrugs. “Hey, we just work here.”

“We’re not his babysitters,” Hanamaki adds, slinging a towel across his shoulder and leaning against the bar towards Iwaizumi. “Unlike you.”

“I’m not his—” Iwaizumi growls, but upon seeing Hanamaki’s smirk he manages to compose himself. “ _Listen_ , are there any shifts either of us could pick up. He blew half our fucking cash tonight and we’ll be out on the street tomorrow if we can’t get any decent work between now and sun-up.”

“Sorry,” Hanamaki replies, demeanor morphing into something genuine. “I wish we could help, but Irihata can barely afford to pay us as it is.”

Iwaizumi sighs, having already known the answer anyways, and glances around the bar. It’s scattered with regular customers, but nothing like the place had been in its prime. Right now their biggest form of revenue seems to be Iwaizumi’s biggest form of debt.

“Isn’t it illegal to bet on unsanctioned fighting like this?” It’s not the first time Iwaizumi’s asked this question and it certainly won’t be the last.

Matsukawa quirks a thick brow at him. “ _You’re_ going to question something’s legality?”

Iwaizumi follows both of the bartender’s gazes as they take in his outfit for the evening. Okay, so the leather pants might be a bit much, but the shirt is _tasteful_ (if not a bit tight). Iwaizumi groans, rubbing a palm over his eyes; the conversation is cyclical and pointless and he knows it.

So instead of talking in circles with these two, Iwaizumi turns on his booted heel and stalks towards where Watari is still hovering over Kyoutani’s battle wounds.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing out of Kyoutani’s mouth when he sees him, shrinking away from Iwaizumi like a cowering puppy. Under the current circumstances it’s still an amusing sight and Iwaizumi seems to be the only one who can wring such a reaction out of the usually volatile man.

From his left Watari chuckles and hands Kyoutani an icepack for the small purplish bruise forming at the corner of his eye before turning to Iwaizumi and patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Go easy on him, yeah?” he says without really meaning a word of it if his grin is anything to go by.

After Watari takes his leave Kyoutani’s body visibly tenses and he tries (badly) to hide a cringe, undoubtedly from the high probability of cracked ribs Matsukawa had mentioned earlier. “You already know what I’m going to say, so I don’t really feel like wasting my breath this time,” Iwaizumi says, calm and even but sounding like metal on metal.

He still looks like a kicked puppy, but Kyoutani manages his trademark scowl. “I had it in the bag, they fucking rigged it—”

Iwaizumi raises his hand to stop Kyoutani’s words. “You don’t need to explain. It’s over, I’m glad you’re not dead. Now let’s get out of here.”

Kyoutani’s sunken eyes widen a bit. “You’re not mad?” he asks, very very softly.

Iwaizumi’s brows furrow dangerously over his darkening eyes. “I’m fucking pissed, but we have to get to work. Now _move it_.”

A tongue flicks out to catch on a small cut at the edge of Kyoutani’s full lips. If he’s surprised by Iwaizumi’s insistence on not letting him sleep this fight off, he doesn’t show it. “I’ll have to change—”

Iwaizumi shoves something small and black into Kyoutani’s hands. “I didn’t forget your hot pants, don’t worry.”

“They’re _not_ my—”

But Iwaizumi’s already turned towards the front door, sending a crude gesture towards a growling Kyoutani over his shoulder. Though he doesn’t bother hiding the obvious amusement on his face this time around.

* * *

At this point Oikawa should really call Yahaba, or a taxi service, or maybe the police even. But his cell phone’s dead and he still has a few ounces of pride left even if he is hopelessly lost driving a car he’s ill-equipped for in the middle of what appears to be a not-so-refined neighborhood.

Probably he should have listened to Yahaba. Probably he shouldn’t have drained his cell phone battery typing away at nasty emails. Probably he shouldn’t have rented an Aston Martin DB11.

Oikawa slumps against the steering wheel with a whine. He’s pulled over on a side street that’s dark save for a few streetlamps and flickering neon signs glowing over the sidewalks bustling with a myriad of people that Oikawa would rather _not_ get acquainted with right now or _ever_ if he can help it.

His eyes scan the area before him warily until they land on a couple of figures loitering on a street corner across from him. Oikawa’s heart nearly jumps out of his chest when he studies their appearance, both built with sculpted muscles and a bit scantily dressed all things considered. Neither look particularly happy, but they also appear to be subtly arguing, the slightly shorter of the two clearly dominating the conversation even though the one with bottle-blond hair looks like he could kill Oikawa with just one glance.

They’re _both_ actually a little frightening, but their stance is different, open and inviting and almost sexual, silvery jewelry glinting in their ears and an actual leather collar wrapped around the blond’s neck, the way their clothes cling to tight asses and shirts rise up to reveal just enough tanned midriff—Oikawa chokes the thought down, even though he’s in a rough neighborhood those men couldn’t possibly be—

There comes a rapping at his passenger window that startles Oikawa so badly he nearly hits his head on the car’s ceiling with his jump. His neck snaps to the side to find one of those men he’d been ogling a moment ago leaning to peer through slightly tinted glass, expectantly.

Oikawa sucks in a breath and considers peeling out right then and there, fuck being lost he’d figure it out, he’d just back track or something until he found something familiar. Instead, for some stupid, unfathomable reason, Oikawa rolls down the window.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice strangely even, if not a bit higher than he’s used to.

The man leans forward, resting his arms against the edge of the windowsill casually, like he’s talking to an old friend. His dark hair is spiked up in a lazily attractive fashion and his eyes are sharp green as they stare at Oikawa from beneath a slight scowl. “No, but I think _I_ can help _you_.”

His undertone is dark with implication. The man smirks when Oikawa’s eyes widen at it.

“Is that so?” Oikawa swallows, trying desperately to keep some type of composure. “And why would I need help from someone like you?”

Oikawa immediately regrets his own venomous implication, but it’s already past his lips before he can stop it. It seems to force the man’s scowl a bit deeper, but otherwise he doesn’t act particularly offended. Instead he counters easily with, “Because a lost puppy like you idling around in daddy’s money won’t last more than a few minutes around here.”

Oikawa tries not to flinch as he watches the man gesture to their dark surroundings with the broad palm not resting against the passenger window. “Unless you were planning on getting your car dismantled and your pretty face beat to shit this evening?”

In order to ignore the glaring truth in his words Oikawa plasters on his best fake smile. “Aw, you think my face is pretty?” he coos.

The man bluntly ignores him. “Look, two thousand and I’ll get you out of here back to whatever gala or penthouse suite you stumbled out of.”

Oikawa balks. “Two thousand yen just for some stupid directions?”

“You’re right, make it five thousand,” he says with a cutting smile. “Inflation’s a bitch.”

Fairly certain he’s being toyed with at this point, Oikawa bites his tongue. “Fine,” he snaps, fingering the button to unlock the car.

The man slides in with ease, the sound of leather on leather drawing Oikawa’s attention briefly to those thigh-hugging, black pants. He swallows again, feeling like he’s going to be doing a lot of that through the duration of his little ill-thought adventure.

In lieu of addressing the leather pants or imagining what this interaction might look like to some outside party’s perspective, Oikawa throws the car into gear and the man points him on straight ahead as though he knows exactly the location Oikawa had manifested from.

“So.” Oikawa chews on his lip and the car makes a horrendous screeching noise that he purposefully talks over. “What’s your name?”

“Whatever you want it to be," comes the predictable, if not a bit uninspired, answer.

Oikawa frowns, lower lip jutting in frustration. “Cut the act, I seriously want to know.”

Whatever bits of the alluring façade his new passenger had been putting on before crumble in the face of Oikawa’s pouting. The man glares over at him, so suddenly annoyed that it almost has Oikawa flinching. “Iwaizumi,” he grunts out.

Oikawa flicks his gaze back to the road, but doesn’t hide his slight, if not a bit dangerous, amusement. “You’re a real charmer aren’t you, Iwaizumi?”

“You’re not paying me to be charming, you’re paying me to get you back to your silver spoon.”

The car lurches and so does Oikawa’s voice. “Why do you keep assuming I’m just some rich snob?”

“Am I really that far off?” Iwaizumi asks, but a loud complaint from the clutch interrupts him. “What the fuck’s with you? Have you never driven a fucking car before?”

“My first car was a limousine,” Oikawa throws back without thinking.

Iwaizumi shoots him an incredulous look. “Why the hell would you tell me that? You just proved the point you were trying to argue against.”

“It’s hard to lie and not kill us at the same time, okay?” Oikawa whines as his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “Besides, Iwa-chan would figure it out when we got to The Ritz anyways.”

Iwaizumi gives a grunt of smug victory before slamming a hand down against Oikawa’s on the gearshift. “Pull over, stop the car,” he growls and then gives the skin of Oikawa’s wrist a little pinch. “And don’t fucking call me that.”

Against his better judgment, Oikawa complies and pulls off to the curb. They’ve exited what seems to be the worst of the dangerous neighborhood, but still they’re nowhere near anything Oikawa can recognize.

He turns to Iwaizumi hesitantly. “Why?”

“Because, as valiantly as you’re trying, you _are_ going to get us killed,” Iwaizumi explains, already opening his door. “Switch with me, _I’ll_ drive.”

By the time Iwaizumi walks around the front of the car and is hovering impatiently at the driver’s side door Oikawa has calmed himself down from the shock of everything that’s happened in the span of just a few short minutes, enough that he can almost get his mouth to work again ( _almost_ ). “W-what—”

Iwaizumi doesn’t let him sputter for very long, wrenching open the door and leaning over to fix Oikawa with a pointed look. “Come on now,” he says almost gently. “Get out of the car—”

He hangs on the last word and Oikawa realizes that after everything he hasn’t even given the man his own name. “Tooru,” he stumbles out. “Oikawa Tooru.”

“Get out of the car, Oikawa Tooru,” Iwaizumi says, gentleness replaced quickly by his previous bluntness, but still there’s something a bit lighter hanging in his eyes that serves to stamp out any of the concern or fear Oikawa should probably be feeling and replaces it with something like trust.

Oikawa pulls himself out of the car and shuffles around to the other side, awkwardly watching Iwaizumi watching him the entire way. The man waits patiently until Oikawa has made himself comfortable in the passenger seat before taking his own seat and rolling the engine back to life.

The genuine smile that forms on Iwaizumi’s lips has Oikawa’s eyes blowing wide. “You like cars?” he asks impulsively.

Iwaizumi nods, just a flick of his head, before pulling back out onto the road with ease. While he drives Oikawa casts tiny glances towards him, trying his best not to stare, but really—this guy is _unbelievable_. Golden-tan skin several shades darker than his own, short hair that looks soft to the touch even with the amount of gel he obviously uses, and those _arms_. If he isn’t careful those arms could probably crush Oikawa like it’s nothing.

After a few minutes Oikawa becomes brave enough to watch him more fully, enjoying the view and the way Iwaizumi changes gears with ease, the car responding to his touch like he was made to drive it. At one point Oikawa might’ve sighed a bit too loudly at the sight.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Iwaizumi mutters.

Oikawa melts with genuine disappointment. “My phone’s dead,” he croaks.

Even though his lips curve down, Iwaizumi huffs out a laugh. “I wasn’t _serious_.”

When they finally arrive back at the hotel Oikawa feels the drive had been entirely too short, considering how long he’d been driving before he’d gotten so very lost.

“So now what?” Oikawa says lamely as they pull up to the valet and someone opens the passenger door for him. He doesn’t make an attempt to get out, rather devotes all his attention on the mystifying man that had just driven him home.

“Now you pay me,” Iwaizumi says in a low whisper, leaning towards him almost conspiratorially. “And then I catch a cab back to my corner and you go back to your penthouse suite."

They are so close now that Oikawa can feel Iwaizumi’s words puff warm breath against his lips. For a single, agonizing second Oikawa has a mindless urge to ask Iwaizumi how much it’ll cost to get him to go back to his penthouse suite with him.

But Iwaizumi doesn’t let him, pulling away abruptly and sliding the car keys to the waiting valet. Oikawa lets out the breath he’d been holding, feeling the fog in his head parting enough to get himself up and out of the car without saying or doing anything else that might be cause for further humiliation. He’s stupid to think that Iwaizumi would even want to come up with him, unless of course there was actual money on the table.

Everyone has to make a living one way or another, right?

Iwaizumi meets Oikawa on the hotel’s carpeted entry, combat boots coming nearly toe-to-toe with Oikawa’s shiny oxfords; an interesting juxtaposition Oikawa has no time or brainpower to admire at this point.

Instead he hands over a few folded bills and Iwaizumi tucks them into the top of his boot, not bothering to count it.

Oikawa watches him with a cloying sensation at the back of his skull. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Iwaizumi confirms as he stands back up. He fits Oikawa with that sultry, implicating smile he’d used earlier. “Unless there’s something else you’d like?”

“N-no, that won’t be necessary.” Oikawa’s fingers flutter in an awkward wave as he spins and heads towards the hotel’s shiny, revolving doors, unable to tamp down his flush.

But as he goes his shoulders finally relax, an odd tension he hadn’t felt coiling so tightly finally coming undone with each step towards his safe, luxurious retreat away from whatever the hell had just happened to him. He sighs, content to see the attractive stranger (who is definitely, _definitely_ a hustler and is _not_ someone Oikawa needs to be getting involved with right now) go.

But then, for no foreseeable reason, at the last possible second just before his fingertips can brush against the polished gold handle before him, Oikawa turns on his heel and falters abruptly when he sees Iwaizumi still standing there, watching him go.

“Um, actually,” he croaks, brain-to-mouth filter hopelessly incapacitated. “Would you—would you like to come up?”

For once that evening Iwaizumi actually looks surprised, more emotion falling across his carved features than Oikawa had thought possible. “Okay,” he says finally after what Oikawa can only assume was a tense moment of uncertainty.

It only takes about four steps into the hotel lobby for Oikawa to immediately regret his decision. Iwaizumi saunters next to him, their tandem steps echoing across the marble floor all the way up into the vaulted ceilings, as they make their way to the elevator bank. It’s fairly late in the evening, the lamps dimmed a low amber, but the lobby is still populated enough that Oikawa can feel the multitude of interested eyes on he and his guest.

He supposes, casting a wary sidelong glance at Iwaizumi, that the leather pants don’t do much to hide—well _anything_. But alongside that, the man’s sleeveless shirt looks about three sizes too small and his ears are lined with all manner of jewelry, not unbecoming, but certainly not anything the Ritz Carlton sees on a regular basis. It’s definitely a stark contrast to his pressed Armani suit and Rolex.

Oikawa tries to ignore the stares and whispers behind hands, keeping his back as straight as possible and not allowing his head to fall or confident air to shatter. But, perhaps more infuriating than those scandalized glances, is the way Iwaizumi himself seems entirely unaffected by them. He walks casually next to Oikawa, glancing about his new surroundings with neutral interest, without a hint of the concern or self-consciousness Oikawa can feel brewing uncomfortably in his own gut.

Probably, Oikawa thinks, Iwaizumi is used to this scrutiny—the nature of the job perhaps.

Even so, Oikawa is glad to finally reach the elevators, sliding into an open carriage and viciously pressing the button to his floor, only letting his muscles slacken when the doors close and he is finally alone.

Or as alone as he can be with Iwaizumi standing next to him, closer than he needs to be standing considering they are the only ones occupying the elevator. Oikawa glances at him warily, but Iwaizumi is too busy studying his surprisingly well-manicured fingernails to notice.

When the elevator dings their arrival Oikawa has to try and hide the way he jumps by running fingers through hair, a nervous tick still, but one not so obvious to Iwaizumi.

With stiff movements Oikawa leads the man to the left, to a double door at the end of a narrow hall. Iwaizumi eyes him as Oikawa fishes in his pocket for the key. “You’re really in a penthouse suite, huh?”

“Oh,” Oikawa turns to blink at him. “Were you kidding when you said that earlier?”

“ _Yes_ , I was kidding,” Iwaizumi grunts, turning to stare at the doors with a frown. “I could tell you had money with that car, but this is ridiculous.”

“It’s only for a week,” Oikawa says a bit defensively, pushing the right door open with more force than actually necessary.

Iwaizumi follows him, already pulling off his boots. “You act like it’s a bad thing, to have enough money for a penthouse suite.”

“I—it’s not—” Oikawa stumbles, toeing off his own shoes. But then suddenly in the midst of his fumbling Iwaizumi invades his personal space, still frowning, and flicks his nose gently. For a heartbeat Oikawa follows Iwaizumi’s eyes as they linger on his lips and he thinks he might lean in and kiss him right then and there. But then he pulls away.

Oikawa feels a little like the wind has been punched out of him. “Wha—what was that for?”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says innocently enough before moving to unceremoniously drop onto the living room’s plush couch. “So, shall we get down to brass tacks?" 

Still dizzy, Oikawa nods, then quickly shakes his head the opposite, brows furrowing. “Brass tacks?”

“My going rate’s usually fifteen-thousand an hour. Eight-thousand if you just want a blow job, five-thousand for a hand job,” Iwaizumi explains, demeanor casual and unapologetic, like he’s reading items off his grocery list or something.

Oikawa can’t help his pout this time. “I already paid you five-thousand.”

Iwaizumi throws him a smirk. “For directions and an escort back to your palace.”

Oikawa ignores the minor jab and instead blurts out. “How much for the _entire_ night?”

At this Iwaizumi stiffens, sitting straighter with his legs spread and features unreadable. He stares at Oikawa for what feels like an eternity, studying and perhaps watching him for any sign of reluctance or uncertainty. For some unknown reason Iwaizumi’s sharp gaze leaves Oikawa feeling hot all over, a full-body flush encasing him, making it hard to breathe. He can feel himself growing hard and they haven’t even touched yet.

After another silent minute Oikawa senses the oncoming humiliation at the thought that maybe Iwaizumi will deny him. But then Iwaizumi finally breaks. “One-hundred-thousand,” he says.

Oikawa thinks maybe he should plug his cell phone in, check his email, listen to the undoubtedly countless messages he’s received from Yahaba. He doesn’t do any of these things though, and instead closes the distance between he and Iwaizumi, settling his hands on the back of the couch to hover over the man, even though beneath the façade he feels so incredibly out-of-his-depth here.

For all he knows Iwaizumi is not a prostitute, but an axe murderer or a cunning thief out to chain him to the bed and then rob him for all he’s worth. Oikawa thinks, for the second it takes for his eyes to focus on the soft line of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of Iwaizumi’s nose, that this man is bound to rob him for all he’s worth one way or another, either way.

So in the end all Oikawa does is agree, voice barely a whisper. He still doesn’t really have any barings on what he’s doing or why, but he can’t bring himself to stop now.

Iwaizumi, seemingly unfazed by their sudden proximity, brings a hand up to curl behind Oikawa’s ear, tangling in his hair. He smiles something genuine, like he’s wanted to do this since he first stepped off that curb less than an hour previous.

Or maybe it’s all just a part of the job.

“Well, Oikawa Tooru,” Iwaizumi murmurs below him. “I think we have ourselves a deal.”


	2. i can see it in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Got a wife then? A girlfriend?” He pauses for effect before brazenly smirking up at Oikawa. “A boyfriend?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, this story's not dead!

Whatever amount of bravado or impetus that had urged Oikawa to close the distance between himself and the hustler a moment before is easily extinguished by the way Iwaizumi unabashedly begins to undress him with those sharp, green eyes.

Oikawa nearly chokes on the confidence forcing its way back down his throat and pulls back to stand in front of Iwaizumi, drawing the man’s attention back to his face and away from the slim cut lines of his hand-tailored slacks.

“Oikawa.” It’s obvious Iwaizumi can see straight through him, especially considering he can’t quite hide the curving of his lips as he speaks. “Now that you’ve got me, what do you plan to do?”

A dozen images flash before Oikawa’s eyes, each more obscene than the next. His lips part to answer, but instead he just stands there staring at the man; a proverbial fish out of water.

Iwaizumi doesn’t exactly seem phased and that only serves to remind Oikawa that this is a business proposition and Iwaizumi is the one with the upper hand and certainly the wealth of experience.

“You could pay me.” Iwaizumi’s smirk comes to full fruition. “You know, to break the ice.”

Oikawa knows he’s being toyed with, but somehow he can’t manage to spin the right comeback in his head, no salty one-liner, no artificial flair. But the way Iwaizumi regards him, with that much too smug expression, only stands to do one thing: _incite_.

_Is that why you rented an Aston Martin? For pleasure?_

Oikawa wonders if maybe Yahaba had actually been right. What would his prim little partner have to say when he found out about _this?_

Iwaizumi is still watching him, reclining on the couch and apparently happy to wait until Oikawa can get all his ducks in a row. How nice.

The earlier panic finally settling, Oikawa focuses on the thin fabric doing little to obscure his guest’s cut form. He imagines running fingers down that chest to the tanned skin of his midriff and the alluring waist of those leather pants and even further down to what’s hiding beneath.

Oikawa might not know exactly what he’s getting himself into, but he’s going to prove to Iwaizumi that he certainly doesn’t either.

Tapping unconsciously at the wallet in his slacks, he observes Iwaizumi’s gaze as it follows his every move, but when Oikawa pulls back with a laugh it seems to startle them both out of the charged atmosphere that had settled in the air between them.

Even though Oikawa keeps larger bills than most, he doesn’t have _that_ kind of cash on him.

“Will a check suffice?” Oikawa asks, voice trilling higher than it has all night, but this time around he’s definitely in control of it.

Iwaizumi nods and Oikawa watches from the corner of his vision as the other man almost seems to hesitate at Oikawa’s rapid change in mood. “Fine,” he grunts. “Make it out to cash.”

“Of course, of course,” Oikawa hums, rifling through the leather briefcase he’d left on the suite’s desk that afternoon.

He’s just managed to procure a pen when a sharp knock at the front door startles him into nearly throwing the thing across the room. Oikawa blinks, looking up to find Iwaizumi staring back at him blankly.

“Would you get that?” he asks politely of the man. Oikawa swallows; he hadn’t been expecting anybody, so it’s a risky move but one he’s willing to take.

Iwaizumi, despite the deep scowl masking his handsome features, actually complies, walking to the door with surprising quickness. From his spot still hovering over the desk Oikawa cannot see the front door open, but he can certainly feel the palpable hesitation from whoever it is standing on the other side of the threshold when Iwaizumi answers.

There’s a grunt of understanding from Iwaizumi, ever the conversationalist, and then footsteps as a porter enters the living room standing stock straight and carrying a bottle of red wine the size of Iwaizumi’s leather incased thigh.

“Oh,” Oikawa says for lack of anything better.

The porter looks pointedly only at Oikawa and not at the way Iwaizumi eyeballs him up and down from his stance leaning menacingly against the wall like an actual thug or something, and says, “With regards from a Yahaba-san.”

Oikawa eyes the bottle of wine as the man holds it promptly for his inspection. His vision narrows as he squints and he can almost feel his lips pursing into a pout against his better judgment.

What did Yahaba think? That a few glasses of wine and he’d be dozy and content and stress-free for a night of dreamless sleep for once? He might have been offended if his partner wasn’t incredibly accurate in that assessment. But still.

“Thank you very much,” Oikawa replies after a beat, schooling his features and voice into something genteel and artificial. “The coffee table will be fine.”

Both men watch the porter set the bottle down as though it is a ticking time bomb set to blow at any second. Then with a bow he begins his retreat, but pauses just in the foray, fixing Oikawa with a rather expectant stare.

“Well, aren’t you going to tip the man, _dear_?” Iwaizumi’s thick voice rings out through the awkward silence, surprising Oikawa so much that he almost misses the mockery of a pet name at the end.

Oikawa has to force himself not to break character and certainly not to look at Iwaizumi’s most definitely smirking features. “Oh—yes, of course,” he chirps. “ _Darling_.”

With a flourish Oikawa walks up to the porter and tucks a couple of bills into his waiting hand, pretending to ignore the sidelong glance the uniformed man gives between he and Iwaizumi. “That’ll be all,” Oikawa says and he hopes the porter understands that what he really means is _‘No more disturbances tonight, please.’_

When the door clicks closed, sealing the two of them back to their privacy, Oikawa finds himself deflating, the mortification of the entire scene finally hitting home. A bottle of wine and a scantily clad stranger in his penthouse suite—the implications are impossible to dodge. Hopefully the porter will assume it simply isn’t what it looks like.

Of course, that would be wildly inaccurate given that it is _exactly_ what it looks like.

“You’re a real piece of work,” Iwaizumi grumbles, but his tone doesn’t supply the same amount of malice as his words would imply. He stares purposefully at the wine bottle. “Almost like you’d _planned_ to pick someone up tonight.”

Oikawa can’t stop a blush from spilling across his cheeks. “Of course not,” he sputters, gesturing to the table. “I didn’t know about the wine, _really_.”            

Now he’s absolutely going to have to have words with Yahaba in the morning. Ignoring Iwaizumi’s unimpressed look Oikawa marches across the room to pick up the little card dangling from the bottle’s neck. “See,” he says before reading the note aloud in his best impression of Yahaba’s annoying voice. “ _’Oikawa-san, please try to get some sleep tonight. P.S. – I hope you didn’t wreck your rental.’_ ”

It takes Oikawa a second to fully analyze what he’s just read aloud, but before the stupid little card can fall from his fingers a rumbling thunder of laughter echoes through the entire suite.

Oikawa looks up, putting everything he’s got behind his scowl but when he sees Iwaizumi’s broad grin, the way his cheeks glow and his eyes scrunch with the force of his amusement, he can’t stop himself from softening. Unfathomably, the man looks even more handsome now with Oikawa as the source of his entertainment.

It is both awe-inspiring and infuriating and Oikawa can’t quite get a grasp on either emotion to pick just one to stew in.

“I can’t believe you actually read that out loud.” Iwaizumi’s finally calmed down enough to speak and Oikawa decides he likes him better when he’s caught up in laughter. “Also, I think I’d like to meet this friend of yours,” he says around a snicker.

“He’s _not_ my friend,” Oikawa grinds out, crossing his arms. “Not anymore at least.”

“Lover?” Iwaizumi hazards, plopping back down on the couch as Oikawa sputters before him again.

“Absolutely _not_ ,” he spits out, scrunching his nose. It’s not like Yahaba was unattractive by any means, but just the suggestion set his teeth on edge; he and Yahaba were practically brothers.

Iwaizumi ignores the cringe with a shrug. “Got a wife then? A girlfriend?” He pauses for effect before brazenly smirking up at Oikawa. “A _boyfriend?”_

Oikawa manages to meet the cheek with a fake simper of his own, humming a cursory laugh. “Hm, no,” he answers honestly. “I don’t exactly have time for that sort of thing.”

Iwaizumi makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “So a pre-paid fling is more your style then?”

For a breathless moment Oikawa feels like his insides have just been flayed and spread out on the table between them for all to examine. “This—” he stumbles for only a heartbeat. “This isn’t my usual thing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Iwaizumi regards him with sharper eyes than even Oikawa’s own. “I could’ve guessed.”

Oikawa’s not sure if he should be offended or not by that assessment, but instead he just toys with the foil covering the wine bottle’s cork, a sharp crease catching against the pad of his finger, not uncomfortably.

Not that he’s got much experience on the matter (read: zero), but this man certainly doesn’t seem like any ordinary prostitute.

“Are you really a—hooker?” Embarrassingly, Oikawa nearly chokes on the word.

The look Iwaizumi gives him next can only be described as smoldering. “Finish writing that check and you can find out.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen and he backs away towards the desk again, feeling like he’s liable to trip over his own feet with the way Iwaizumi’s gaze shoots straight through him—or more accurately, through the suddenly stifling suit he’s still wearing.

Amidst relocating his pen and shrugging out of his suit jacket, however, he remembers his earlier goal of proving to Iwaizumi that he doesn’t, in fact, have Oikawa’s number like he seems to think he does.

As he scrawls a hasty signature and precisely tears the check from its book Oikawa feels something shift and he realizes that, if anything, _he’s_ the one holding all the cards tonight.

“Does your fee include everything, _Iwaizumi?_ ” Oikawa asks, spreading out the man’s name on his tongue with a purr. He brandishes said fee between them as he nears the couch again, observing the way Iwaizumi’s eyes not so subtly track the many zeros written in ink there.

When Oikawa’s only a step away Iwaizumi’s gaze switches automatically to watch him with a hint of suspicion, but nods just the same. “Everything,” he confirms. “Condom's optional, I'm clean. But I don’t kiss on the mouth.”

Oikawa fits him with a perfectly slick smile. “Neither do I.”

As if a switch had been flicked Iwaizumi makes to stand, but Oikawa pushes him down by the shoulder, creasing the check in half between his long fingers and holding it out to Iwaizumi, but far enough away that the man has to reach for it.

Iwaizumi’s frown deepens, his features mostly unreadable, but reaches out anyways, stretching to pluck the square of paper out of Oikawa’s fingers without a word and tucking it quickly into the back pocket of his pants like Oikawa might change his mind and snatch it back at any given second.

He’s got a fair bit of bark, but Oikawa’s not so sure he’s actually got much bite. Though he’s not stupid enough to test his theory too much, but the way Iwaizumi watches his every move, the way he blatantly assesses Oikawa’s features and words—he’s wary. Though Oikawa supposes he’s got every right to be.

They’re both just strangers here, after all.

To ease the tension that’s rapidly built up between them, no thanks to Oikawa’s change in demeanor again, he sinks easily to his knees before Iwaizumi, planting splayed hands delicately on either of the man’s thighs, that eye-catching leather surprisingly soft to the touch.

If Iwaizumi is surprised by this sudden turn of events, he doesn’t let it show. “You know normally it’s the other way around,” he says, voice even but Oikawa can tell that he’s still on edge just by the way his muscles tense impulsively beneath his fingertips.

“Is that how you imagined it?” Oikawa drawls sweetly, letting the words melt between them. “With your head between my legs?”

Iwaizumi’s throat constricts around a swallow and that’s when Oikawa knows he’s got him. “This way’s nice too.”

Oikawa always had been a competitive little shit.

“Hm, ‘ _nice’_ is an understatement.” Oikawa licks his lips purposefully and the first taste of control is so intoxicating any anxiety from earlier is forgotten in lieu of unbuttoning Iwaizumi’s pants. “Who knows maybe you’ll even learn something?”

At that Iwaizumi breaks a bit, glaring down at him with an incredulous smirk. “I doubt that’s— _fuck_.”

All it takes is Oikawa’s tongue to get the man’s words to crumble.

He starts at the base and works his way up, placing wet open-mouthed kisses against every vein and patch of soft skin until Iwaizumi’s half-hard erection is straining, reddened against his stomach. Oikawa may have been new to the business of prostitution, but he certainly isn’t new to sucking cock.

Above him Iwaizumi groans and Oikawa’s lips stretch into a smile as they stretch around the head and his tongue dips into the slit, tasting the salty pre-cum there. He wonders vaguely as his cheeks hollow when the last time Iwaizumi was the one to receive pleasure rather than the other way around.

Based on the reaction he gets when he bobs his head down lower, sucking Iwaizumi in towards the back of his throat, Oikawa thinks it may have been a long time, maybe even the first.

He feels Iwaizumi shift beneath him and when Oikawa opens his eyes, peeking up through his lashes to look he finds the man staring powerfully down at him, a hand hovering over the bangs that have fallen haphazardly across his forehead, hesitating there like a question. Oikawa hums an answer and he watches Iwaizumi catch a noise in his throat at the sensation, but then that hand moves to tangle in his hair, close to the root and tug just enough to remind Oikawa of his own arousal, straining and still untouched.

And yet instead of releasing Iwaizumi to focus on his own pleasure, Oikawa instead relishes in the warm flesh against his tongue and those fingers scraping against his scalp and the control he has over the entire scene, Iwaizumi and all.

It doesn’t take long with his swollen lips wrapped around Iwaizumi and Iwaizumi wrapped around his finger, even if he’s been paid to allow it. No matter though, Oikawa doesn’t mind pretending for one night. Maybe _this_ is the mid-life crisis. Maybe _this_ will help him finally sleep through the night.

Iwaizumi comes down his throat and he thinks, when the man gasps out his name above him, that it’s worth every cent.

* * *

Oikawa Tooru is dangerous.

This is the conclusion Iwaizumi comes to seconds after the man has licked his fucking cock clean and padded off to the bathroom with a much-too-smug smile and a very noticeable bulge in his slacks.

Iwaizumi is the one who’s supposed to have left his richie-rich client dazed and blissed-out on the couch of his penthouse fucking suite. He can never let Kyoutani know. Scratch that—he can never let Matsukawa and Hanamaki know. _Shit_.

Iwaizumi scowls, feeling like he’s gotten permanent lines just from dealing with Oikawa for barely even an hour. He can practically feel that check burning a hole in his pocket though. He really hates double-edged swords, but this one he decides he hates the most. How many more hours until the night is considered up?

He hears a dull thud down the hall in the bathroom and then Oikawa’s voice squeaking much higher than it had when he’d been kneeling between Iwaizumi’s legs like he belonged there.

With a resigned sigh Iwaizumi scrubs a hand over his face before standing and stuffing himself back into his pants and wondering vaguely if that’s all Oikawa wants out of their night together or if he needs to still yet perform.

The bathroom door is cracked open when he gets to it, the light from inside illuminating a slice of lush carpet beneath Iwaizumi’s socked feet.

Because he’s never been a particularly tactful person Iwaizumi toes the door open a bit wider, moving to lean his shoulder against the frame. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Oh!” Oikawa jumps, _actually_ jumps, and for a second Iwaizumi can see a flash of flushed cheeks in the mirror. But then Oikawa turns to him and stares down his nose, except now there’s a pair of wire and plastic framed glasses perched there. “Don’t you knock?”

Iwaizumi shrugs, forgoing an answer and he gets a huff in response. “My contacts were drying out my eyes,” Oikawa explains.

Iwaizumi fits him with a glaring combo of both confusion and patented bluntness. “Why do you wear them then?”

Oikawa’s brows furrow before he plasters on an air of superiority. “In the world of big business appearance is everything.”

Iwaizumi snorts. This man’s moods were going to give him whiplash for sure. “I _knew_ you were vain.”

“I am _not_ ,” Oikawa bites back, looking like he might be resisting the urge to stick his tongue out. “Glasses just don’t go with the look I’m trying to portray.”

“You’re right,” he nods. “They make you look like a nerd.”

Oikawa frowns but it turns into more of a pout and Iwaizumi can’t help but find it the tiniest bit cute. Oikawa flicks off the bathroom light and pushes past him. “Like you’re one to talk. I suppose you wear leather pants and flashy jewelry and crop tops everyday of your life then, do you?”

Iwaizumi follows behind, glad that the other can’t see his face the moment when he realizes Oikawa’s actually got a point. (He doesn’t, and it’s not a fucking _crop top_ , and the jewelry isn’t that flashy, is it?)

Instead of addressing this though he says, “Now what are you doing?”

Oikawa’s halfway out of his crisp dress shirt by the time they make it back into the living room leaving him in wrinkled pants and a threadbare undershirt that shows off a lean body Iwaizumi hadn’t noticed before.

“My precious business partner has given me such a thoughtful gift,” Oikawa simpers, voice dripping with sarcasm. He shifts towards the kitchen to presumably rifle around for a corkscrew. “So why not enjoy it?”

Iwaizumi stops, watching him from across the room. He wonders briefly about the nature of the ‘business’ Oikawa keeps harping on, but decides the less details they know about one another the better. It’s only one night after all.

Oikawa reaches for two wine glasses and Iwaizumi shakes his head. “I don’t drink,” he states plainly.

He sees Oikawa’s mouth form a surprised ‘o’ before nodding and tucking the second glass back into the cabinet. “More for me,” he sings, though the pitch sounds somewhat bitter.

Five minutes later finds them on the couch, which proves to be just large enough to afford them each enough room where they aren’t touching, but just small enough that they’re still remotely within reach of each other. Oikawa holds his glass of red wine dangerously in his fingers, considering the couch his _white_ , and is wholly immersed in an episode of _The Twilight Zone_ that he’s explained to Iwaizumi as ‘definitely a classic.’

Iwaizumi, for what it’s worth, doesn’t give a shit about _The Twilight Zone_ or Oikawa’s opinions on it, but he does find himself wondering what sort of parallel universe he’s managed to fall into here at Tokyo’s Ritz Carlton.

Oikawa hasn’t explained the impromptu blow-job and Iwaizumi is ready to assume he’s never going to. But still, he’s entirely curious as to the man’s reasoning for giving him an exorbitant amount of money to spend the night watching black and white television with him when they could be—well, _fucking_.

Iwaizumi wonders if he can ever tell Kyoutani about any of this or if maybe he’ll wake up in the morning back in their little, shitty apartment and it will all have been some bizarre dream.

But they really do need the money and if Kyoutani is working the corner with potentially broken ribs and wounded pride then Iwaizumi can get through this (whatever _this_ is). Besides, it could be worse; Oikawa isn’t disgusting, he’s just— _weird_.

“I haven’t done this in a long time.” Oikawa’s low voice breaks through his thoughts. The man’s eyes are still glued to the television, but his words are obviously directed at Iwaizumi.

Uncertain, Iwaizumi glances at Oikawa and let’s out a chuckle. “What? Watch garbage sci-fi?”

Surprisingly, Oikawa doesn’t retaliate. “Relax,” he says instead. “Stop pushing myself.”

“You do that a lot?” Iwaizumi finds himself asking. He hadn’t really noticed until now, but Oikawa suddenly looks like he’s not slept in days. He swallows down the thought and then clarifies, “Push yourself?”

“Only way to get anything done in my line of work,” Oikawa explains around a yawn that only half forms. “Hit it until it breaks.”

 _Even yourself?_ Iwaizumi finds himself wondering silently in his head. He blinks, staring at the side of Oikawa’s face, at the mussed hair curling at the back of his head and the crooked tilt to his glasses.

“It’s not daddy’s money, you know.” Oikawa’s voice sounds far away and Iwaizumi realizes he has no idea how long he’d actually been staring at him.

“Hm?” Iwaizumi grunts over his internal embarrassment.

“I haven’t seen my father in ten years. It’s not daddy’s money, it’s mine.” Oikawa doesn’t turn to look at him, but Iwaizumi can still see the pride lighting in the edge of his eyes. “I earned it, every last cent.”

Iwaizumi hums in his throat, pretending to mull this new information over even though he doesn’t need any time at all. “Alright, I believe you,” he says softly and then, “But that still doesn’t make you any less of a rich snob.”

“Iwa-chan, so _rude_.”

Oikawa finally turns to him and it looks like he expects some more backlash on the nickname, but this time Iwaizumi stays silent. He’s not sure why, but he does.

As if realizing the depth of the conversation they’d just shared, pink starts to dust Oikawa’s cheeks and he shifts uncomfortably. Maybe because he’s embarrassed or maybe for reasons Iwaizumi can’t guess at, Oikawa tucks his long legs up onto the couch and buries the lower half of his face in the arm he slings across his knees. Iwaizumi continues to look at him, even as Oikawa redirects his attention back to the television.

In the glass of his lenses Iwaizumi can see the reflection of what appears to be a horrendously simulated flying saucer. Beneath the reflection Oikawa’s eyes sparkle.

He really doesn’t understand this man at all. And yet—

Slowly, impossibly slowly, he reaches out and grabs Oikawa’s wrist, pulling his arm down away from his face. He’s not sure why he does that either, exactly.

Oikawa startles, but Iwaizumi just keeps moving, still slowly, until he’s kneeling on the floor in front of Oikawa, gently guiding his feet back to the floor, his legs open in an exact reversal of what had transpired between them earlier.

“Iwa,” Oikawa whispers hesitantly leaving his name half intact, but for whatever reason Iwaizumi doesn’t really mind it. Oikawa’s face is flushed, not just from the wine.

He knows the man wants this when his hips twitch instinctually towards Iwaizumi’s mouth when he leans in, fingers ghosting against the front of Oikawa’s dress pants. So it’s not just about screwing with Iwaizumi’s mind and libido or wanting company while he half-drinks himself to sleep. Still, Iwaizumi wonders.

Flicking open the button Iwaizumi drags Oikawa’s clothes from him with ease, gripping the waistband of his briefs and all at once he’s bared, stock still and unsure instead of the other way around. _This_ Iwaizumi can handle. _This_ he understands.

His eyes tilt up to find Oikawa’s round and glowing behind his glasses, but there’s less trepidation than a moment before. Now there’s only a desperate sort of want, a need. _This_ Iwaizumi can handle. Oikawa Tooru—he’s not so certain.

Earlier Oikawa had teased him with kisses and sultry touches, but Iwaizumi cuts straight to the point. Oikawa’s already hard anyways when he takes him into his mouth, not stopping until his nose is buried in the soft curls between the man’s legs.

Above him Oikawa gasps, startled and fingers gripping hard at the short hair at the back of Iwaizumi’s head, not bothering to ask or seek affirmation but Iwaizumi lets go of a soft, vibrating moan for Oikawa’s benefit just the same. It’s his money after all and when Iwaizumi had said _everything_ , he’d meant it; a little hair pulling was novice stuff anyways.

He sucks hard and Oikawa lets out a long groan and if Iwaizumi’s mouth weren’t so preoccupied he had half a mind to snark up at him _‘pay attention, maybe you’ll learn something’_ even though he was loathe to admit that Oikawa didn’t need much tutoring on the subject.

Beneath his hands Oikawa’s thighs shake and Iwaizumi clutches at the flesh, massaging into the muscles. He pulls back only to plunge back down until he can feel Oikawa’s cock in his throat spasm and that’s all it takes.

Iwaizumi doesn’t exactly remember what he’d said or yelled or gasped when he’d come earlier, but Oikawa is silent letting nothing but a whimper past the lip he’s got clenched painfully between his teeth.

When it’s done and Iwaizumi pulls back he leaves nothing behind other than a shivering Oikawa, who is definitely flushed at this point, leaning limp against the back of the couch. He tucks the man back in his pants, gently pulling up the zipper, all business.

Because that’s what this is: _business_. The check in his back pocket is proof enough of that.

* * *

Oikawa scrubs his skin pink in the shower after he excuses himself from Iwaizumi with the embarrassing urge to say ‘thank you’ for quite possibly the best blow-job he’s ever received in his entire life. Apparently it pays to go to a professional.

He didn’t thank him, however, but Iwaizumi didn’t appear offended by that. He’d simply turned his gaze back to the television as if nothing at all had just transpired between them.

Oikawa’s not too sure why this behavior is still surprising him. Iwaizumi’s nonchalance in regards to sex must be naturally ingrained by now.

When he steps out of the shower the entire bathroom is warm and steamy, including his glasses which he rubs half-heartedly on his shirt after towel drying his hair. After he finishes with his nightly routine (why should hiring a prostitute interfere with strict moisturization?) he finds that Iwaizumi has vacated the living room in favor of the king sized bed Oikawa has yet to actually make use of.

The bedroom door is halfway open and Oikawa holds his breath when he enters, even though it appears that Iwaizumi has already fallen asleep. The bed looks so large for just one person, the linens soft, the naked skin of Iwaizumi’s back warm and inviting.

Instead of joining him Oikawa shuts the door with a quiet click and heads to his desk. There’s still some wine left, but he forgoes it in favor of his cell phone charger and laptop.

 _Hit it until it breaks_ , he’d said earlier even though he’s certain Iwaizumi couldn’t possibly have known what he meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, I hope to be on a more regular update schedule with this fic from now on.


	3. just take it step-by-step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Never answer the phone.”_   
>  _“Then why did you call me?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello bridge chapter...

Oikawa wakes up to a shrill ringing in his ear and a painful crook in his neck that he’d like to attribute to last night’s promiscuous activities, but can’t because when his eyes peel open against the morning light he realizes that he’d fallen asleep at his desk.

As much as he wishes it would, his phone doesn’t stop ringing and he knows even if he ignores this particular call, the person on the other end will not _stop_ calling even in the event of a random, earth-shattering apocalypse.

Persistence, Oikawa thinks, is a trait he sorely regrets ingraining into his protégé business partner.

When he finally answers, Yahaba’s voice is just as shrill as the ringing had been a second before. “Well I’m glad you’re not dead,” he says. “Because we’ve got a bit of a situation.”

“Yahaba-kun,” Oikawa greets with as much sugar in his voice as he can manage while trying to stretch the ache from his neck. “The car handles beautifully, thank you for asking—and the wine, so thoughtful. Really Yahaba, you shouldn’t have.”

Oikawa can practically see the other man rolling his eyes on the other end. “Would you please listen to me?” Yahaba bites. “Ushijima-san is becoming increasingly difficult, the longer we wait on this deal the more likely he is to back out—”

“Oh, he won’t back out, Yahaba-kun,” Oikawa croons, finally awake enough to let his mind flick back into business mode. “Trust me, he’s got no other options. Of course he’s nervous, the old man’s not quite ready to have his name taken off the stationary just yet, now is he?”

“It’s not the old man I’m worried about,” Yahaba explains with a huff. “It’s his son.”

Something clicks in Oikawa’s head and the faint image of a man with broad shoulders and sharp eyes burns across his memory. “Ushiwaka?” Oikawa growls, incredulous.

“Look, I know he bothers you—for whatever stupid reason,” Yahaba says, muttering the last part under his breath. “But he wants to meet tonight, face-to-face.” He swallows audibly and then adds, “With _you_.”

“What?” Oikawa shrieks, eyes darting immediately to the bedroom’s still closed door. He lowers his voice an octave before proceeding. “Absolutely out of the question. _You_ do it.”

“He doesn’t want to meet with _me_. He wants _you_!”

Oikawa can hear the frustration in Yahaba’s tone, but ignores it in favor of pressing his brows together in a scowl. “Of course he does! Do you know he tried to recruit me while we were supposed to be on a date,” he hisses. “A _date_ , Yahaba!”

“Yes, Oikawa-san, I _know_ ,” Yahaba sighs. “Look, he’s bringing his wife along so—”

“Don’t you mean his beard?” Oikawa sneers into the phone. He thinks he can hear some shuffling coming from the bedroom, despite his newly lowered voice.

“ _So_ ,” Yahaba presses on, ignoring him. “That means you need to find a suitable date as well. And calm the hell down—you say the wrong thing and we could end up in court!”

The bedroom door opens to reveal Iwaizumi leaning in the doorway. He’s got his leather pants on from the night before, but nothing else, and Oikawa takes a second to enjoy the view before an idea starts to form in the back of his mind.

“It just so happens that I have the perfect date for such an occasion,” he says with a wide smile. “Make a reservation somewhere nice, won’t you? Seven o’clock? You’re wonderful, Yahaba-kun!”

He can hear Yahaba’s voice still yelling at him through the phone, but he cuts it off with a tap of his finger before curving his gaze up to Iwaizumi, pretending as if he’s just noticed him.

“Good morning,” he trills, busying himself with organizing the papers he’d inadvertently used as a pillow the night before.

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything for a few beats, just watching Oikawa from across the room. When he finally does, all he says is, “Did you sleep?”

Oikawa hums and nods, sparing him a glance. “A little,” he confirms. “I had some work to take care of last night.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes rest heavily on the desk, knowing. “You should take better care of yourself,” he grunts.

Tilting his head, Oikawa fits the man with a smirk. “Are you my mother?”

For what it’s worth, the first emotion that registers on Iwaizumi’s face is a mask of confusion that Oikawa finds immediately adorable. But the second and more prominent emotion turns out to be anger in the form of a scowl that darkens all of the man’s most handsome features and consequently sends a thrill of terror down Oikawa’s spine. It’s like he’d almost forgotten that Iwaizumi was in fact a hustler of the very illegal and presumably dangerous variety, all things currently considered.

“Well.” Oikawa swallows. “Never mind that now. I’ve got a very important proposition for you.”

Yahaba’s voice echoes back through his head— _He wants you!_ —and suddenly his stomach starts to somersault. Iwaizumi is staring at him from across the room, waiting with surprising patience, but all Oikawa can think about is Wakatoshi’s stupidly stoic face.

“But first,” Oikawa stumbles, though he tries valiantly to hide it from Iwaizumi. “Are you hungry? You must be—I can order room service, anything you like. Should I just request the entire menu—?”

Iwaizumi looks thoroughly unimpressed and Oikawa decides that he’s really starting to dislike how perceptive the man is. “What’s the proposition?” he asks flatly.

Oikawa still feels a little off kilter with his latest bright idea, but he’s in deep enough that there’s no going back now. “Okay,” he says. “But first, you need to understand what it is I do for a living.”

Iwaizumi still looks entirely apathetic, but he doesn’t argue and instead just shrugs.

Oikawa licks his lips, dry and somewhat chapped under his tongue. “I buy companies.”

“Companies,” Iwaizumi parrots, uncertain.

Oikawa smiles, bright and plastic. “Yes. You know, an organization that buys, sells, or produces goods or services in exchange for money.”

“I know what companies _are_ ,” Iwaizumi spits out. “What _kind_ of companies?”

Oikawa’s smile softens under Iwaizumi’s glare. “Typically ones in financial difficulty, that sort of thing.”

“And that’s how you’ve made your fortune.” Iwaizumi gestures vaguely around at the penthouse suite. “ _Your_ fortune, not daddy’s.”

Oikawa isn’t entirely sure if that last part was sarcastic or genuine, but he appreciates Iwaizumi’s clarification either way. Nodding along, he answers with a shrug, “Of course, the company I am about to acquire comes to us at the shining price of five billion yen, give or take.”

At this Oikawa watches with rapt pleasure as Iwaizumi’s eyes widen considerably. “Five billion— _seriously?”_

Oikawa laughs, soft and pleased. “It’s not as though I’m a literal billionaire of course, my company has a multitude of investors. My job isn’t as easy as it sounds.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “I’m sure your manipulative side certainly comes in handy.”

“Iwa—” Oikawa chokes on the rest of the controversial nickname. “I am _not_ manipulative.”

“Mhmm.” Iwaizumi brushes off Oikawa’s scoffing easily. “What exactly do you do with these failing companies once you put down that kind of money?”

“Let’s see, how can I explain this in terms you’ll understand?” Oikawa simpers, ignoring the way Iwaizumi’s teeth clench around a growl. “It’s sort of like stealing a car and selling it for the parts.”

“I’ve never stolen a thing in my life, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Of course not,” Oikawa says sweetly. “But it’s a good metaphor, don’t you think?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t stop frowning, but his voice becomes less harsh. “So you don’t _build_ anything, you don’t _make_ anything—you buy these big businesses and cannibalize them so you can profit on the separate components.”

Oikawa stands from his desk chair. “Exactly! Iwa-chan is smarter than I gave him credit for.”

“Don’t call me that,” Iwaizumi grunts with practiced ease at this point.

Slowly Oikawa makes his way around to the front of the desk, leaning there and fitting Iwaizumi with a dangerous stare of his own. “I’m going to be here until Sunday and it’s expected of me to attend a multitude of functions, including a very important business dinner this evening with a man I greatly detest, but also unfortunately holds the key to my latest acquisition.”

Iwaizumi crosses his arms over his bare chest, but the move is more defensive than offensive; Oikawa can see that just by the way the man observes him with obvious hesitance. “And what do _I_ have to do with any of that?”

Oikawa forces himself to look Iwaizumi directly in those narrow green eyes. “I’d like you to accompany me tonight and for the duration of my stay. I will, of course, pay you for your time and—“ he fights against a tremor in his throat. “—and _services_.”

Oikawa can’t help but remember the night previous, when Iwaizumi had spoken of blow-jobs and hand-jobs and sex like it was nothing more than everyday conversation between friends. As Iwaizumi continues to study him, Oikawa feels confident that he once again holds the upper hand in whatever business this was that had been transpiring between them.

Iwaizumi’s features and tone are nearly unreadable when he finally answers. “You want to hire me for the entire week,” he says slowly. “Like—an employee.”

“If that’s how you want to look at it, sure.”

Frowning, Iwaizumi steps forward finally and Oikawa can’t quite help his glance over the man’s chest and abs as he moves. “Look, not that I wouldn’t just love to be your lap-dog all week,” he says and Oikawa definitely knows his words are sarcastic this time around. “But, you’re rich and attractive—seems like you could get anyone you wanted for free, so why hire _me?_ ”

Oikawa thinks about going the cliché (but honest) route of telling Iwaizumi that he’s _different_ than all his other suitors or that he’s mysterious and, quite frankly, hotter than most anyone Oikawa’s ever been with. But instead he takes the safer, less embarrassing path and says, “You’re a professional—and I really don’t need any unnecessary romantic entanglements this week.”

If Iwaizumi is at all offended by that he doesn’t show it. “I’m not cheap,” he smiles. “Twenty-four hours a day, six nights—that’s gonna be steep.”

Oikawa meets his smile with one of his own, showing teeth. “Try me.”

Iwaizumi fits him with what Oikawa can only assume is his most shit-eating smirk. “One-million.”

“One-million yen,” Oikawa repeats, having definitely expected a high number considering how much he’d let on about his current financial standings; but one-million yen? Iwaizumi was certainly pushing his luck. “Six nights at one-hundred thousand is only—”

“You want days too, Oikawa-san,” Iwaizumi interrupts, his snark not dissipating in the slightest. Oikawa isn’t certain what’s making him hotter under the collar: that smirk or the sudden honorific.

“Days too.” Oikawa nods. “Seven-hundred.”

“Nine,” Iwaizumi counters easily.

Oikawa frowns. “You’re seriously going to haggle?”

Iwaizumi shrugs, but he looks rather amused and Oikawa can’t help but indulge that expression a tiny bit more. “Eight-hundred-thousand and a little extra to get you some clothes not entirely made of mesh or leather.”

It’s hard to detect, but Oikawa’s pretty certain he can spot the flash of triumph in Iwaizumi’s eyes as he nods his assent. “Deal,” he grunts, sticking out his hand.

Oikawa steps forward to grasp it, the man’s palm warm and callused against his own. He wonders briefly how it would feel against other surfaces of his body, but the thought is fleeting and when Iwaizumi pulls away Oikawa forces himself back to business.

“Half now and half after the week is up,” Oikawa explains, walking back towards his desk and checkbook. “Agreeable?”

“Fine.” Iwaizumi nods curtly and watches Oikawa’s pen scrawl across the paper neatly. He considers the fact that someone like Iwaizumi might not even possess a bank account (perhaps he keeps his cash in a mattress somewhere) but he figures he’ll handle things appropriately if (read: _when_ ) his financial adviser starts calling and asking questions.

The check is folded just like the last, but this time it’s tucked carefully into a fold of Iwaizumi’s boot by the door and Oikawa decides that it looks like a practiced move for the man.

They take the time then to get ready for the day. Oikawa’s still in his clothing from the evening before, at least partially and the crook in his neck feels only marginally better, but he’s less tense now that the deal’s been made and that’s something at least.

In the bathroom Oikawa ignores the dark circles under his eyes and the knowing sensation that Iwaizumi is only a few feet outside the closed door (hopefully putting on another layer of clothing for Oikawa’s sake). After brushing his teeth, he finds himself standing in front of the bedroom’s long closet, debating between the navy Armani or the black Prada, a well-loved favorite.

Suddenly there’s a warm presence at his side and Oikawa nearly jumps out of his skin before he realizes it’s just Iwaizumi. The man stares at his closet alongside him, oddly curious and then gestures to a slim cut, blue Hugo Boss hidden partially at the end, the fabric silky and jewel toned; not one Oikawa even remembered bringing along on this trip.

Iwaizumi doesn’t say a word but Oikawa listens anyways, grabbing at the hanger and before he can even turn around Iwaizumi’s already got his back to him.

Oikawa snorts out an undignified laugh, but starts to undress just the same. “What a gentleman,” he jokes half-heartedly.

From this angle Oikawa can see the sharp line of Iwaizumi’s (now clothed) shoulders straighten, but he shrugs them against Oikawa’s comment a moment later to hide any of his obvious tension. Oikawa decides he finds the entire thing sort of endearing, coming from someone who prostitutes himself in one of Tokyo’s least desirable neighborhoods.    

The suit fits him well, snug against long, lean limbs and Oikawa is impressed that it’s the one Iwaizumi picked out of all the more subdued choices. He’s just buttoning his shirt when he spots Iwaizumi’s gaze peeking at him over his shoulder, obviously curious if not a bit impatient.

“Dinner tonight is formal, so please find at least one respectable suit if not a few. And _try_ to act appropriately,” Oikawa explains with a sniff, realizing that he’s sounding like a snob again even to himself now. He swallows and brings his voice down an octave, fingers grabbing the first tie he can find, before continuing. “I’ve got to go into the office for a bit, but I’ll have the front desk make up a spare key for you.”

He watches Iwaizumi for a reaction as he shrugs on his jacket, but doesn’t get much in return. But at this point it’s far too late to even start considering the murderous thug angle again. His fingers work nimbly against the silk of his tie, practiced. Of course, if Iwaizumi was going to kill him and steal all of his money, last night would have probably been his best opportunity. Oikawa thinks about the check he’s just written and realizes that perhaps keeping him alive is in Iwaizumi’s best interests anyways.

“What time is dinner?” Iwaizumi asks, his voice breaking through Oikawa’s minor mental crisis like a sledgehammer.

“Um,” he stumbles and then stumbles again when Iwaizumi steps directly into his line of sight, frowning down at the crookedness of the knot he’s tied. “Seven.”

Iwaizumi straightens his tie with a jerk. “Alright,” he says, then looks up at Oikawa with something false. “Have a good day at work then, _dear_.”

Oikawa stares at him, at first taken aback, but then grinning. His tie looks perfect. “Does this mean I can call you Iwa-chan for real?”

“You can,” Iwaizumi says with a slight nod and Oikawa beams if for only just a second. “But don’t expect me to answer.”

His expression drops immediately. “Why not?” Oikawa demands, trying to (unsuccessfully) hide his whine, but Iwaizumi doesn’t bother to grace him with an answer.

* * *

Holy fucking shit.

Eight-hundred-thousand— _holy fucking shit._

Iwaizumi wraps the bath towel tighter around his waist as the phone against his ear rings and rings. While he waits for an answer he studies all the little bottles laid out precisely on the bathroom counter with a good mix of curiosity and disgust. This Oikawa guy is definitely high maintenance, but holy shit, _eight-hundred_ —

“H’lo?” comes a groggy voice in his ear, finally after the sixth ring and third call.

“Kyoutani,” Iwaizumi says with a bark. “You better wake the fuck up because I have something unbelievable to tell you.”

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” Kyouatni grumbles on the other end, sounding still half-asleep. “What happened? You okay?”

Iwaiumi’s eyes roll. “I’m fine. Look, remember that guy last night? The Aston Martin?”

“Daddy’s money?” Kyoutani asks, sounding a bit more alert now.

Suppressing his odd urge to explain that that assumption is actually incredibly incorrect, Iwaizumi presses on. “I’m sitting in his suite at the Ritz right now—”

“Must be nice,” bites Kyoutani with very little actual bite in his tone.

“Fucking listen to me,” Iwaizumi growls. “He wants me to stay the _whole week_.”

In his head Iwaizumi can see the exact moment when things click for Kyoutani, he can actually visualize the man’s deep-set eyes widening against the smudged charcoal from last night and his natural scowl contorting. “ _What?”_

“And you know what he’s going to pay for that kind of contract?” Iwaizumi ignores him, pacing across the length of the bathroom. “Eight-hundred-thousand _fucking_ yen.”

"You’re shitting me,” Kyoutani’s voice is clearer now in his ear, closer. “You can’t be serious.”

Iwaizumi grins, even though no one else can see. “As a heart attack.”

“What’s wrong with the guy? Is he ugly or some shit?”

“No, he’s actually—” Iwaizumi spits back immediately, a little too quick to fully grasp what he’s admitting. “ _No_ ,” he asserts forcefully, though for Kyoutani’s or his own benefit he’s not really sure.

“Shit, _I_ should’ve taken him.” Kyoutani’s voice is the closest thing to a whine Iwaizumi’s ever heard from him.

“He seemed pretty nervous at first,” Iwaizumi chuckles darkly. “You probably would’ve scared him away.”

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Kyoutani responds flatly. “You know, some people _like_ that.”

“How’s your face?” Iwaizumi inquires, rapidly changing the subject before they can get into just the type of clientele Kyoutani usually finds himself with. “Did you get your ribs looked at yet?”

“S’fine. I’ll go into the clinic if the bruising doesn’t clear up in the next couple’a days.”

“No fucking way, go today.” Iwaizumi frowns at his own reflection in the mirror. “I’ll drag you there myself if I have to.”

Kyoutani snorts. “Sounds to me like you’ve got a job to do.”

Hearing it from Kyoutani’s mouth instantly solidifies things for Iwaizumi, but he can’t back out now and besides the money’s incredible. He’d be an idiot not to take a job like this—how hard could wining and dining be? Schmooze some of Oikawa’s clients, maybe even flirt a little, have sex with a man that is definitely very attractive—Iwaizumi bites down on that thought before it can develop any further.

“Look, I have to buy some new clothes today and cash a check. I’ve got till seven,” he explains, running his free hand through his still damp hair. “How about you come with me, help me navigate fucking Ginza, I’ll give you some money for rent and then we’ll go to the clinic together.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t point out the fact that the only reason he even needs to talk about rent money at this point is Kyoutani’s own fault because he knows well enough that the already bruised man’s own complex had probably weighed heavy on him the night before, what with disappointing Iwaizumi ( _again_ ). And also, partially because he’s considering the idea that perhaps Kyoutani’s stupid transgression is what got him to that particular street corner and into Oikawa’s car in the first place.

After a long, thoughtful pause Kyoutani finally responds. “I don’t have to dress up, do I?”

Iwaizumi glances down at the floor where his discarded clothes lay in a wrinkled pile. “Just don’t show up half naked and I think we’ll be okay.”

“That was _one fucking time_ —”

“I’ll meet you at Higashi-ginza in an hour. Got it?”

Listening closely Iwaizumi can detect Kyoutani’s long sigh on the other end, a nervous hiss of air escaping from within grinding teeth. “Got it,” he bites out resignedly and hangs up.  

* * *

Oikawa scans the photographs spread across the desk before him, keen on the details. Miles and miles of prime industrial property—of course most of the yard could be leveled and posed in other, more creative, more lucrative ways. His eyes glow at the thought.

“Hm, the real-estate possibilities alone are endless,” he murmurs.

Across from him Yahaba’s pen scrawls across his papers messily and he’s saying something, but it’s not quite enough to break Oikawa from his minor trance. A cellphone rings, just background noise considering the ringtone is recognizable, but not his own.

“Yes?” he hears Yahaba answer blandly and then after a few brief beats of blissful silence, “ _Fuck_.”

The language isn’t terribly surprising, but the use of it here alongside important and volatile business discussions makes Oikawa’s ears finally perk and his stomach drop.

His eyes snap up to meet Yahaba’s and the younger man looks positively rabid, his usually flawless skin spotting over with flushes of pink and red. He slams his phone down onto the desktop without another word, teeth catching at his lower lip painfully.

“What is it?” Oikawa prompts hastily. “ _What?”_

“Ushijima _senior_ just got the inside track on a contract of ten billion from Karasuno to build 787’s for Japan Air.”

Oikawa feels his entire body deflate against the cushy desk chair he’s been sitting in for an undetermined amount of time. Karasuno is nothing more than a mediocre arch rival, a thorn in his side, but it seems maybe he’s let them slip under the radar for a bit too long now. Oh, they’ll _definitely_ have to fix that.

As he considers the news that has just been unceremoniously dropped on their heads it only takes a few more seconds for his blood to reach its exact boiling point and then he’s scrambling up and out from behind his desk to pace across the room, long legs carrying him quickly to the window and back again to stand in front of his partner.

“Stupid, infuriating Ushiwaka,” he hisses out, the name acid on his tongue. “Why would he want to sign with those _crows_ anyways?”

“Not Ushiwaka, his _father_ ,” Yahaba points out, though still harboring a scowl of his own. “You better start practicing your award-winning smile for dinner tonight, Oikawa. You’re going to need to do some major kissing up to keep this deal alive, otherwise it’s going to cost us a hell of a lot more money.”

“Don’t ever say kissing and Ushiwaka in the same sentence ever again,” Oikawa bites, folding his arms over his chest firmly.

“Look, I don’t think Ushijima Wakatoshi genuinely wants this deal with Seijou to fail,” Yahaba says. “He’s not the type of person to willingly follow his father off a financial high dive—Karasuno’s not exactly stable. You just need to appeal to that, make sure that he knows this is his decision—a _responsible_ decision—to make and not his father’s anymore.”

“Appeal to him?” Oikawa scoffs. “What exactly would you have me do, Yahaba-kun?”

Yahaba frowns deeply. “You know that’s not what I mean. Don’t allow him to stray,” he explains evenly. “And if all else fails we can always grease some pockets. I’m sure with all the connections you’ve got—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Oikawa interrupts, forcing himself to brighten even if it comes across as false and plastic. “Did you handle the particulars for tonight?”

Unsurprisingly, Yahaba only looks mildly distressed at Oikawa’s rapid change in mood and behavior. “Narisawa. Seven o’clock. Who exactly is this date you’ve got in mind, Oikawa?”

For a brief moment Oikawa relishes in the fact that his partner has grown to be just as pointed and blunt about things as he himself can oftentimes be. He also relishes in the fact that he’s got somewhat of a secret that Yahaba is clearly dying to be let in on, which is something rather unusual between the two of them and Oikawa decides that he’s going to keep it that way, at least for a little while longer.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, all pretense of falsity and earlier annoyance replaced in favor of seriousness.

“Of course,” Yahaba answers in a heartbeat, obedient. “Would I be working with you on this infuriating deal with your self-proclaimed nemesis if I didn’t?”

“You’re a good friend.” Oikawa brushes away a fake tear and holds in his laughter at Yahaba’s look of disgust. “Now help me strategize this business dinner. Self-proclaimed nemesis indeed.”

* * *

If his time spent cashing Oikawa’s ridiculous checks at the bank was any indication of how his day’s going to go, Iwaizumi isn’t sure he’s going to be able to get through it without punching some uppity snob in their stupid, suspicious face.

But he’s managed to keep his temper in check, not having to resort to violence like he might’ve had to in his own neck of the woods just yet. He’s not so sure how his track record is going to look after one Kyoutani Kentarou enters the picture though.

Maybe he should have just had the man pick up some cash at the hotel’s front desk—of course, with the myriad of looks he’d acquired on his way out of the Ritz that morning he’s not so sure that would be a preferable route after all.

When he steps off the train at Higashi-ginza Station that thought is solidified by the sight of Kyoutani’s chosen state of dress—or lack thereof. Iwaizumi’s scowl deepens with his every step and he thinks maybe the person he ought to punch today is the one standing smack in front of him wearing painted-on jeans and a shirt that in no way hides pristine abs or the fair bit of bruising darkening the skin on his right side.

Iwaizumi knows the kid is provoking him, doing the exact opposite of what he’s been instructed to do, and shit Kyoutani’s _good_ at it because he doesn’t even have an ounce of guilt on his frowning face to give him away.

“What the fuck is this?” Iwaizumi growls, walking past him but grabbing onto his arm to drag him towards the stairs. People are staring; some watching from the corner of their vision and others more blatant, eyes wide and comically horrified.

Iwaizumi wouldn’t normally give a shit—these looks come with the territory—but he knows they’ve got to be on their best behavior here if he wants his contract with Oikawa to last longer than just a few fucking hours cooped up in a penthouse suite. But right now, he’s too busy pulling Kyoutani along with him and wrenching him around once they hit the street to think logically on that.

“What?” Kyoutani sounds blunt and ignorant, but Iwaizumi knows better than to believe that front by now.

“This? This is what you wear to fucking Ginza of all places?”

Those full lips purse when Kyoutani frowns, his eyes sinking further into his skull. “Shit, you think I care what these rich people think? You’re still in your clothes from last night.”

“You look like you should be out on a street corner somewhere,” Iwaizumi snaps, full well hearing the hypocrisy in his voice and not giving a damn.

“Thanks,” Kyoutani grunts. “Not so bad yourself.”

A sigh emanates from Iwaizumi’s lungs, a practiced one reserved only for Kyoutani. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

The streets are busy in Ginza, even for a Monday morning when most people should be at work (barring a few particular professions, of course). Eyeing the passers-by around them, the ones giving the two men a very wide berth, Iwaizumi figures most of them are housewives or something of the sort out to spend their husband’s money. He and Kyoutani fit in just about as well as a couple of bulls in a china shop.

Kyoutani pulls them to a stop in front of a store window, behind which lay an arrangement of faceless mannequins dressed in all manner of suits and other formalwear that Iwaizumi is pretty certain he’s never owned or desired to own in his entire life. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t recognize the designer, but he does find the logo familiar; something he’d seen in Oikawa’s closet that morning.

Iwaizumi is really starting to feel out of his element here, but true to what he’d bluntly announced earlier it seems like Kyoutani’s faring just fine. Shuffling around Iwaizumi, the other wrenches open the front door, probably a bit too forcefully. “After you,” Kyoutani croons, but it comes out rather more like a snarl.

A bell tone signals their arrival and without missing a beat a woman rounds the corner, her smile plastic and oddly familiar, heels clicking with each step closer to them.

“Hello, gentlemen,” she greets, bowing her head on reflex and then, as if the visual had registered a moment too late, she straightens with a painful snap of her neck to regard the two out-of-place guests with a horrified look that she isn’t able to hide quickly enough.

The saleswoman hesitates for a moment, eyeing them both warily, unable to stop her gaze from lingering on the golden skin of Kyoutani’s stomach. “C-can I help you?”

Iwaizumi has to physically stop his eyes from rolling, taking a deep breath and trying to address the startled woman as politely as possible. “Yes, I need something for dinner tonight—”

“H-have you ever shopped with us before?” she blurts out before he can finish, still obviously spooked.

“Look, he needs a monkey suit—you’ve got loads of ‘em in the window,” growls Kyoutani, and Iwaizumi can see a flare of red creeping up his neck. “Seems to me like we’re in the right place.”

Iwaizumi has to give the woman a little bit of credit considering she doesn’t immediately run at the sight of Kyoutani’s glare. “Yes, well, it’s just that—I’m not sure we’re going to have _exactly_ what you’re looking for.”

“Listen lady—” Kyoutani starts, waves of tension rolling off of him.

“Kyoutani,” Iwaizumi warns, turning with a scowl. He knows his roommate is rude, but his attitude is decidedly _not_ helping in this scenario and now he’s got to damage control so they don’t get kicked to the curb and have to go play this game all over again at another store he’s entirely uncomfortable being in.

At his name Kyoutani turns, features snapping back to normal almost immediately. He blinks at Iwaizumi, naïve as the first day they’d met.

“Would you just wait outside?” Iwaizumi says in a hushed voice, grabbing onto Kyoutani’s arm with a grip that leaves no room for argument.

“But—” Kyoutani tries.

“ _Outside_ ,” Iwaizumi hisses. “Please?”

With a weak grumble Kyoutani obeys and Iwaizumi turns back to the woman with a pair of subdued bedroom eyes and his best smile. “I’m sorry for him,” he says in a low voice. “You see I’ve got a very important date tonight and I’m in need of some new clothes and—” from his pocket he pulls out a stack of bills and taps at them causally with his fingers. His voice lowers even further then as he watches the woman’s eyes widen. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“Oh, o-of course not—“

“Iwaizumi,” he supplies with a purr as his eyes flick to her nametag. “I appreciate the help, _Okita-san_.”

A pink flush forms high on her cheeks and Iwaizumi is once again grateful for some of the more applicable skills he’s learned in his profession. The sales clerk guides him further into the store with a soft hand on his arm and a smile he might’ve thought pretty before last night.

It’s always a wonder what a little money and sex appeal can accomplish these days.

* * *

When Iwaizumi steps out of the store a while later, laden with a couple of bags and a slightly less conspicuous roll of money, he finds Kyoutani leaning against a telephone poll actually doing something like _pouting_. Of course, the expression disappears the second he sees Iwaizumi and is replaced by his usual sunken glower.

“What?” Iwaizumi asks as they turn back towards the train station; he’s not about to let Kyoutani slip away without going to the clinic.  

Kyoutani side-eyes him, clearly suspicious. “What kinda place is this guy taking you?”

Iwaizumi shrugs; he hasn’t really given that much thought until now. “Dunno, it’s some business dinner. Probably fancy.”

“Ever been somewhere fancy enough they make you wear a suit?”

“No,” Iwaizumi grunts, feeling the muscles in his shoulders tensing at the thought. _And try to act appropriately_ , Oikawa’s haughty voice suddenly reminds him.

The words swirl inside Iwaizumi’s brain, faster and faster until they’ve awoken enough of a panic in him to change directions entirely, dragging Kyoutani with him towards an all-too familiar hole in the wall.

That’s how they find themselves sat at the empty bar with Hanamaki Takahiro leaning across from them, a delighted smirk plastered across his lips.

Iwaizumi stares down at the mismatch of plates and silverware and cutlery placed before him distrustfully. “You’re sure you know about this kind of stuff?” he murmurs across the bar.

Hanamaki frowns. “Have a little solidarity,” he says. “I’ve got a fair bit of culinary school under my belt, or have you forgotten already?”

“By a ‘fair bit’ he means two semesters and a couple of months as a line cook,” Matsukawa explains blandly from his stance behind Hanamaki, focused on drying a row of freshly washed mugs.

“Issei!” Hanamaki gasps, throwing a hand over his chest. “How could you?”

Matsukawa gives him a thoroughly unimpressed glance. “You know things like that don't make a difference to me, Hiro.”

“Look,” Iwaizumi interrupts before the quarrel can become any more of a lover’s spat. “All I need are the basics. Like why the fuck are there _three_ different forks?”

As it turns out, every piece of cutlery laid out in front of him serves a different purpose (including the small, plastic fork that he’s supposed to pretend _isn’t_ plastic). It seems entirely stupid and wasteful to Iwaizumi, but he lets Hanamaki explain each piece’s function because honestly, he has no clue what kind of restaurant he’s expected to ‘perform’ at tonight and his friend seems more than happy to impart his limited wisdom on the subject.

“Explain to me again what this is for?” Hanamaki sighs after Iwaizumi’s butchered the difference between a dessert spoon and soup spoon.

Unfortunately, it’s Kyoutani who manages to respond first. “Iwaizumi’s got himself a sugar daddy.”

“Fuck off,” Iwaizumi growls at him, frustration already piqued from his impromptu etiquette lesson. “He’s just a client that’s contracted me for the week.”

“Sounds like a pretty sweet gig,” Matsukawa says, leaning against the bar and also Hanamaki’s hip. “What’s wrong with him?”

Iwaizumi’s gaze rolls to the ceiling in exasperation. “There’s _nothing_ —“ he starts to explain again, but then stops himself abruptly from derailing this train any further. He points down at the place setting vehemently. “Salad fork, dinner fork, fish fork.”

Hanamaki fits him with a blank stare, no longer even incredulous. “Wrong, wrong, and wrong.”

Iwaizumi groans, falling forward until his forehead is resting on the bar just missing the offending cutlery. He’s so fucked, he’s going to make such a fool out of himself in front of that stupid, annoying man. He should’ve never agreed to this bullshit in the first place. But _eight-hundred-thousand—_

Someone shuffles on the stool next to him, laughter deep and rumbling, and Iwaizumi reaches out blindly to grab Kyoutani’s wrist. “Laugh it up, but we’re still going to the clinic,” he announces roughly, ignoring the groan in response.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Matsukawa snickers. “And go somewhere that’s only got chopsticks.”

Iwaizumi melts further into the bar, already dreading the night ahead of him. The mantra in his head— _eight-hundred-thousand_ —better damn well be enough to get him through this week.

* * *

As it turns out, Kyoutani’s only got a hairline fracture and some mild bruising, but the peace of mind it gives Iwaizumi allows him to focus wholly on the night ahead of him. Fortunately or unfortunately, Iwaizumi isn’t totally sure yet.

The landline on Oikawa’s temporary desk is ringing when Iwaizumi finally makes it back to the suite. He’s already dealt with all manner of questions and suspicious eyes in the lobby and he isn’t sure he’s ready to deal with anymore, but he answers anyways, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder.

“H’lo?”

Oikawa’s voice rings out, tinny but ever-annoying through the receiver. “ _Never_ answer the phone.”

Iwaizumi squints down at the display and the numbers scrawling there. “Then _why_ did you call me?”

“Did you get a suit?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi grunts, shifting the garment bag hanging over his arm. “Wasn’t exactly an easy steal though.”

“You—“ he can hear Oikawa swallowing on the other end. “You did _pay_ for it, right?”

“I didn’t _actually_ steal it, idiot,” he barks, trying desperately to suppress his urge to laugh. “Why do you keep assuming I’m some fucking criminal?”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa prompts hesitantly, if not a bit pointed.

Iwaizumi groans. “Whatever. I got the damn clothes. Why are you calling if I’m not supposed to answer?”

There’s a pause where it seems like maybe Oikawa is mulling the exact reason over in his head. “Meet me in the lobby at six-thirty,” he finally says with no room for argument.

Iwaizumi smiles, too-sweet, so that it will carry over the phone. “I’ll be there with bells on, _dear_.”

Oikawa meets his sarcasm without missing a beat. “I look forward to it, _darling_.” And then he hangs up.

* * *

Oikawa isn’t sure why he’s so nervous. It would be one thing if his nerves stemmed from the fact that he’s being forced to play nice and have dinner with one of his sworn enemies. But even though picturing Wakatoshi's blank stare in his head makes him cringe, that’s not the root of his nervousness and Oikawa really can’t seem to grasp that.

It’s the unknown factor that’s got him flustered. In fact, it’s this same factor that’s had him flustered and in the clouds and generally nervous for going on nearly twenty-four hours now. And he thought hiring the man for an entire week was a _good_ idea?

Iwaizumi is the unknown factor and even though Oikawa is usually a very good judge of character, someone who can read and see through even the toughest of facades, Iwaizumi seems to be someone he can’t quite get a grasp on. It probably stems from the fact that the man’s a hustler, someone who takes the form of any client’s desires; an _actor_. How was Oikawa supposed to know what was real and what was put-on for his tastes and amusement? This wasn’t the type of person he encountered very often and, unbeknownst to Iwaizumi, the man had managed to leave Oikawa bared and vulnerable last night and Oikawa still had yet to figure out how to put himself back together again.

The hotel lobby is a bustle of activity when he finally arrives back from the office that evening. He’s running late and as he searches out Iwaizumi through the clusters of people milling about, socializing in the lobby bar he’s glad that somehow Iwaizumi had had the foresight that morning to suggest one of his more formal suits, seeing as how he really had no time at all to go up and change. He absolutely was _not_ going to be late in front of Ushijima Wakatoshi.

His eyes catch for a second on a man sitting at the bar, black jacket fitted over his broad shoulders, the fabric almost shining under the dim chandelier lighting. He can appreciate the style, the fit; it’s almost akin to one of his own favorites, but when the man wearing said suit turns to glance over his shoulder Oikawa feels his stomach drop at the sight.

He knows Iwaizumi is attractive, that much is simply an objective truth. But that Armani suit—not that leather was unbecoming on the man in any way, but _holy shit_.

Upon noticing Oikawa (gaping stare and all) Iwaizumi slides off his barstool and saunters over, giving Oikawa a full view. He’s hot under the collar, literally, and he’s pretty sure Iwaizumi could get more business dressed like this than if he worked the street corner _naked_.

There’s something about him too, not just the appearance, but his demeanor; Iwaizumi is confident, he knows he looks good, and he knows how badly it’s affecting Oikawa if that smoldering gaze is anything to go by. If Oikawa had thought things couldn’t get any worse for him than they had last night, he was absolutely, entirely wrong.

“You’re late,” Iwaizumi says when he finally stops in front of Oikawa.

“You’re—” a myriad of impulsive responses vie for Oikawa’s voice, but he swallows them down as surreptitiously as Iwaizumi studies his own appearance from head-to-toe. “Iwa-chan, you clean up nice,” he manages not to stumble. “Looks like money well spent.”

The double entendre does not go unnoticed by either of them, but Iwaizumi thankfully lets it slide in favor of fitting Oikawa with a sour look. “What’s with you and nicknames?”

Oikawa decides the question is a step up from Iwaizumi outright yelling at him to stop. He shrugs and in lieu of a better answer just grabs for Iwaizumi’s hand. “Shall we?”

He feels Iwaizumi stiffen, but for only just a heartbeat, before he tugs Oikawa forward to change their position, looping Oikawa’s hand around his arm. “C’mon Oikawa-san,” he huffs, but there’s a smirk there somewhere too. “Don’t want to keep your important dinner guests waiting.”

Startled for only a moment, Oikawa thinks rather abruptly that he’d much rather be going to dinner with just Iwaizumi alone, despite their disillusioning contract and his lingering nerves. But even though that realization threatens to swallow him up, Oikawa lets himself be pulled towards the valet anyways.

After all, the first day of their contract is nearly over already.  


	4. you don't need a lonely night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You and I are a lot alike, aren’t we?” Oikawa hums, eyes narrowed as he observes Iwaizumi. “Such similar creatures.”_

He lets Iwaizumi drive.

This is both invigorating and disconcerting all at once—mostly because the insurance is under Oikawa’s name only, but also because the sports car absolutely purrs under Iwaizumi’s skilled hands. Oikawa has to remind himself (a couple of times) not to think about what those hands are also quite skilled at, considering the slim and telling cut of his suit pants.

Iwaizumi fixes the collar of his shirt a little nervously, having chosen to go sans tie, and Oikawa finds himself relaxing at the idea that in this scenario he’s not the fish out of water for once.

“Alright?” Iwaizumi asks somewhere around the third time Oikawa’s let his gaze linger a bit too long.

Oikawa turns to stare out the window, willing away a flush. “Just thinking about dinner,” he says; only a partial lie.

“Your five-billion-yen client?”

Involuntarily Oikawa cringes at the number, thinking about the news he and Yahaba had commiserated over earlier. “Yes,” he mutters, squinting against the glare of a passing headlight. “It will certainly be an interesting dinner.”

Beside him he thinks he can make out a tiny, rumble of a laugh. “That why you hired me to be your date?”

Even if Oikawa finds his entire body suddenly tense it’s good to know that at least Iwaizumi seems to be somewhat enjoying himself. “Oddly enough, that’s not even remotely why it will be interesting,” Oikawa explains, pausing before adding, “Ushiwaka and I used to go out.”

“Ah, I get it now,” Iwaizumi chuckles, flicking on the left blinker. “What is this, like some revenge deal? He broke your heart now you buy up his company and smash it to pieces?” 

Oikawa turns on him with a petulant scowl. “No! It’s got nothing to do with that—besides he’s not even my type.”

“So this Ushiwaka guy—he’s rich, but not pretty enough for you?” Iwaizumi feigns a considering expression. “Or maybe he’s just bad in bed—“

“That’s not it at all!” Oikawa practically screeches, having to restrain himself from smacking the smirk right off Iwaizumi’s face lest they never make it to dinner at all. “You don’t understand, Iwa-chan. He’s a very dense person who doesn’t have a romantic bone in his entire body.”

Iwaizumi nods with a hum. “I knew you were a closet romantic.”

"You’re so rude,” Oikawa mutters. “You know I’m paying you to do this so technically I am your _employer_ —“

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Iwaizumi waves him off, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “I’ll play nice, Oikawa- _san_. Whatever you say, just give the order.”

“Well—that’s better,” Oikawa huffs, though his sails feel sorely lacking in wind. “I’m not sure how dinner will go, so just follow my lead, alright?”

Iwaizumi swings the car into the restaurant’s lot just in time and turns to Oikawa with a frown. “Alright, dear,” he says, but despite the dark look, the pet-name for once doesn’t sound quite so bitter between them.

* * *

Wakatoshi is there waiting for them—and they’re right on time, not even late! But of course, the man had gotten there _early_.

“Oikawa Tooru,” Wakatoshi greets with a bow. “It is good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Oikawa sneers back a bit flippantly. Though he’s sure it goes right over the other’s head; he bites his tongue a second later because this is a business meeting after all and if he doesn’t handle it appropriately he knows, despite his seniority, that Yahaba will _definitely_ have his ass tomorrow.

The sound of a throat clearing breaks through whatever web of tension had formed instantaneously between them and Oikawa steps aside too-quickly to gesture towards the man behind him. “Oh, this is—“

And then suddenly, in the face of his mortal enemy, Oikawa realizes with great mortification that he doesn’t even know his own date’s full name.

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says, without missing a beat, and extends a hand out. “A good friend of Tooru’s.”

The use of his given name does not go unnoticed by Oikawa or Wakatoshi and for once in a very long while Oikawa sees a minor crack in the man’s outer, brick-wall exterior.

“A pleasure,” Wakatoshi says, glancing over Iwaizumi skeptically and all of Oikawa’s earlier embarrassment is replaced by a morbid kind of delight.

At the introduction, the woman standing just behind Wakatoshi finally stirs, having had enough of being ignored and steps forward tactlessly to embrace Oikawa like they’re long lost friends (they’ve met, briefly, _once_ ).

Kimiko is as beautiful as ever (at least as far as Oikawa can tell), wearing a black dress, something slimming and low cut, not that any of the men there really seem to notice. She flutters her long lashes towards Iwaizumi and Oikawa can’t help a snort when she has to forcefully wrap Wakatoshi’s arm around her waist as they follow the hostess to their reserved table. And people say _he_ ’s high maintenance?

It’s a marriage of convenience, good business, what this woman and Wakatoshi share. Oikawa knows that, along with anyone else not denser than a brick wall. Sometimes he even marvels at Wakatoshi’s ability to play the part at all.

Of course, the idea of good business, _convenience_ , sits a little too familiarly in Oikawa’s mind tonight as his gaze flits to Iwaizumi on impulse. But, so far the man seems to be doing just fine playing _his_ part this evening.

Oikawa sits himself across from Iwaizumi, making sure to be on Wakatoshi’s left side and leaves his date to fend for himself when Kimiko lays into him, talkative as ever. But again, as Iwaizumi’s lips curl into a soft, attentive smile as he pretends to buy into whatever it is Kimiko is selling, Oikawa thinks he’s playing his part, well—almost _too good_ , really.

He may have underestimated Iwaizumi; those bedroom eyes and that charming grin are doing wonders to keep Kimiko entertained so Oikawa can get straight to business. He’s got half-a-mind to actually be _jealous_ , but a shrill voice in the back of his mind sounding suddenly a lot like Yahaba’s urges him pointedly to stay on track.

“It is my belief—my father’s belief, that the men who create a company should control it,” Wakatoshi’s voice rumbles through the meager space between them, forcefully vying for Oikawa’s attention.  

Oikawa sighs audibly, reaching for his glass of freshly poured water. “Ah, right down to business as usual,” he hums, though he expects nothing less of the man before him.

“Let me rephrase,” Wakatoshi says, entirely unbothered by Oikawa’s false lack of interest. “There are rumors regarding Seijou and your practices.”

And there it is, the other shoe Oikawa had been waiting to drop ever since they’d started their talks with Ushijima senior some time ago. Wakatoshi may be socially inept from time to time, but his bluntness had always been an intriguing, even _positive_ quality when it came to the business man.

“Ushiwaka.” Oikawa murmurs the name, knowing that it irritates Wakatoshi even if he never lets it show in his ever-stoic expression. “So untrusting. How long is it that we’ve known each other now?”

But before Wakatoshi can answer the loaded question, their server arrives with a bottle of sparkling sake and Kimiko takes the opportunity to laugh giddily at something Iwaizumi presumably has said a moment before. Oikawa wonders if it had really been that funny, or if the trill in her voice and the cutting look through her lashes across the table are just for show; along with the entire dinner itself, really.

“Oikawa,” Wakatoshi says, ignoring his wife in favor of reaching towards Oikawa’s hand atop the table, but not allowing himself to actually make contact. “If such a circumstance would arise where you would secure control of the company, what are your plans then?”

Oikawa can feel his blood start to boil at Wakatoshi’s tone, at the way he speaks so neutrally yet every word seems to somehow be filled with doubt and hypotheticals; as if Oikawa is a child waging war on an imaginary battlefield, as if he thinks it an impossibility that Oikawa would ever be able to secure control of his company. No, not _his_ —his father’s.

_You just need to appeal to that, make sure that he knows this is his decision—a responsible decision—to make and not his father’s anymore._

Oikawa grits his teeth, but forces a smile to spread the fullness of his lips. _Break it to bits and sell off the pieces_ , he wants to hiss out, but instead manages, “When a body is dying would it be wiser to let the entity decompose or harvest what is salvageable?”

“I believe that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, Oikawa.”

Oikawa tries to school his features into something appropriate, but it’s hard to with Wakatoshi staring at him so blatantly. When the first course is brought out Oikawa is thankful for the minor distraction that allows him time to reconsider his defenses. He allows himself to admire the single, briny Kumamoto oyster, but also Iwaizumi’s unhidden look of ease upon realizing they’ll be eating omasake-style, a traditional Japanese meal—not something foreign and unpronounceable. He wonders vaguely just what Iwaizumi had been expecting of the business dinner, deciding he’ll have to remember to ask ( _tease_ ) later, when they’re alone again.

There are is myriad of utensils laid on the table before them and Oikawa fits a pair of sable chopsticks easily in his long fingers. But before he can use them a chime of feminine laughter brings his eyes back up to watch his date knocking back the appetizer, half-shell pinched between his fingers, ponzu granita staining the edge of his thumb orange, as if it were a shot of tequila.

Gaze widening, Oikawa tenses as the etiquette and table manners ingrained in him since he was a child flash maddeningly before his eyes, but then at his elbow Kimiko beams before mimicking Iwaizumi with a flick of her tiny wrist.

A throat clears and Oikawa watches as Wakatoshi ignores his wife’s amusement, but doesn’t bother with his chopsticks either and suddenly Oikawa feels like he’s been punched in the gut—only, it’s in the best way possible.

He finds Iwaizumi watching him from across the luminary centerpiece, looking entirely innocent. He considers, briefly, the possibility that Iwaizumi knows what he’s doing; maybe that expression is genuine or maybe it’s provoking, but either way Oikawa can’t help but find it disarming.

Naturally, Kimiko rips through their moment with a manicured hand on Iwaizumi’s arm and the momentary connection is lost again in the face of all things business.

Wakatoshi is saying something and Oikawa nods along, blinking but not focusing on anything other than the image of Kimiko’s hand on Iwaizumi’s arm from the edge of his vision.

Oikawa wonders what Wakatoshi might think if he knew his wife was falling hard and fast for a hustler he’d already basically been to bed with. Of course, it doesn’t really matter considering how oblivious the man tended to be when it came to such matters. Either oblivious or just too busy worrying about business to worry about whether or not his wife was satisfied in those _particular_ ways. Wakatoshi had always been some sort of walking social enigma; it wouldn’t have surprised Oikawa in the slightest if she’d been with a prostitute or two—maybe even Wakatoshi himself had—

Oikawa nearly chokes on the thought, washing it down with a long drag of his drink, the delicate bubbles tickling his throat on the way down. He’s letting himself get off track, letting himself get distracted most especially by the man he’d hired explicitly to distract other parties at the table. No, that just wouldn’t do—he couldn’t let Wakatoshi get the upper hand here.

Wakatoshi frowns at him, but the expression is only infinitesimally different than his usual that most wouldn’t even notice the concern there. “Oikawa are you alright?”

“Is it a question of money?” Oikawa counters, his voice strained from trying to clear it.

“It is not,” says Wakatoshi. “It is a question of what is right and what is honorable. For fifty years my father has built this company and I do not intend to see it destroyed so easily.”

“Is that why you’ve been talking deals with Karasuno?”

“Oikawa—“

With a bite to the inside of his cheek to hide his triumph, Oikawa silently basks in the way Wakatoshi’s tone darkens at the mention of something Oikawa suspects he’s not supposed to be privy to.

“They’ve been unstable for years,” he continues, almost casually. “Do you really think they’ll be able to hold up a contract for ten-billion?”

Wakatoshi pauses unnaturally; there’s something cracking in his resolve and Oikawa can nearly taste it. “I have already told you it is not a question of money.”

“So take our deal,” he purrs, eyes so wholly focused on Wakatoshi, he doesn’t even notice the emergence of the second course. “Or ultimately lose to Karasuno when they realize that the whole is _not_ always greater than the sum of its parts.”

Oikawa knows that Wakatoshi has experienced his patented intensity before, in fact he’s experienced it in a much more furious, bitter form than even now. But something about Karasuno, something about this deal or perhaps his father has the man’s usually granite exterior turning brittle.

Oikawa just can’t help himself. He sends a silent apology to Yahaba and let’s a wide smile darken his features as Wakatoshi’s silence stretches on. “I think I’ve got my answer, _Ushiwaka_.”

With no more hesitation Wakatoshi stands, shaking the table as his powerful legs send his chair backwards, tipping dangerously close to falling altogether. “I believe it would be in our best interest to be leaving,” he announces with an incredible amount of restraint. He turns then to Iwaizumi and his wife, staring up at him. “Iwaizumi-san,” he nods.

“Such a pleasure, Iwaizumi,” Kimiko sighs out, like they’re old friends already, and perhaps like this sort of thing happens all too often. Then she flits her gaze to Oikawa, something piercing (read: _jealous_ ) hidden there and it has nothing to do with her husband. “And Oikawa, do keep in touch.”

Oikawa watches them go, the glow of triumph he’d felt seconds before already dimming significantly with each sway of Kimiko’s hips. He wonders if Iwaizumi’s watching too, if he likes that, if Kimiko wasn’t the only one charmed tonight. He wonders—

“Not how you envisioned things going?” a deep, nearly amused voice, wrenches him out of yet another spiral of thought. But this time he really doesn’t mind it.

When Oikawa looks back across the table Iwaizumi is fitting him with a very flat look.

“It could have been worse.” Oikawa blows the air out of his lungs. “You don’t know Ushiwaka like I do.”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Seems to me like he’s not the kind of man to just bow down to someone like you.”

“Someone like _me_?” Oikawa scoffs.

Iwaizumi’s deadpan gaze doesn’t waver. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you can be kind of a dick.”

“How am I not supposed to take that the wrong way?” Oikawa can feel his lips forming a pout and he’s all but powerless to stop it.

Iwaizumi just shrugs. “It’s not all bad, just a part of your charm I guess.”

Then immediately Oikawa forces himself to brighten. “Iwa-chan thinks I’m charming.”

“Not even close.”

“Well I think _you’re_ charming,” Oikawa says airily, reaching for his drink. “You had Kimiko wrapped around your finger without even trying.”

Iwaizumi snorts, but Oikawa is almost certain he can detect a hint of red on his cheeks. “Have you forgotten what I do for a living?”

“Hm.” Oikawa makes a show of scrutinizing him carefully over the rim of his glass. “You _do_ clean up nice, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi ignores him dutifully, glancing around the restaurant. “So I suppose we’re leaving now too.”

“No hurry,” Oikawa says around a bubbly sip, finally starting to feel somewhat relaxed now that the evening has taken a new turn, even with Iwaizumi watching him closely. “Why let a perfectly good meal on the company go to waste?”

He can already hear Yahaba complaining in the back of his mind; tomorrow would not be a good day. So for tonight Oikawa’s going to let himself _indulge_ —and the meal would be nice too.

* * *

The leisurely five-star dinner with Iwaizumi certainly helps to take the edge off, but even so it doesn’t manage to fix _everything_ , as could be predicted. Oikawa knows he is a _very_ hard person to fix as it is.

He again lets Iwaizumi drive them back to the hotel because he’s had his _and_ Iwaizumi’s share of sake and is certainly unfit to drive anything, let alone the Aston Martin. (It’s definitely not got anything to do with the little genuine smile on Iwaizumi’s lips as he changes gears with ease, no certainly _not_.)

* * *

Iwaizumi can’t make it back to the penthouse fast enough. He’s over the restricting, slim-fit suit and the eyes that trail he and Oikawa as their leather shoes click across the marble lobby in echoing synchronicity. He figures Oikawa is used to all this: the uncomfortable formalwear, the extravagant dinners, the curious stares and gossiping whispers, the sports cars. Well, maybe not so used to that last one, but still it’s only been a few hours of it and already Iwaizumi is nearly ready to prorate their contract and get back to his crappy apartment and Kyoutani’s horrendous cooking.

But when the elevator doors close, encasing them in mirrored silence save for the hum of pulleys Iwaizumi can’t help but relax upon watching Oikawa’s fingers frantically rip through the knot of his silk tie, his entire carefully sculpted exterior seeming to crumble in an instant.

Iwaizumi eyes him, hesitant to comment on the sudden and almost jarring change, but the words seem to get stuck in his throat. After all, he doesn’t really mind seeing this version of Oikawa.

When the elevator chimes their arrival it really is too late for Iwaizumi to say anything anyways as Oikawa glides into the hallway and into the suite, barely even acknowledging his companion’s existence a step behind.

Iwaizumi stands in the entryway, watching Oikawa toe off his shoes and shuffle towards the bedroom, halfway out of his suit, but careful not to let it wrinkle before it can make its way back onto a hanger. He emerges a moment later in sweatpants and a plain shirt and Iwaizumi realizes abruptly that it’s the most casual thing he’s seen the man in since they first met twenty-four hours previous.

Oikawa still doesn’t bother to acknowledge him and Iwaizumi thinks he should be relieved by that, (easy money, Matsukawa would say with a smirk) but for some reason being ignored like this is seriously starting to annoy him. The double doors to the balcony open and Oikawa disappears into the darkness beyond them and Iwaizumi’s still standing in the entryway and really, he’s not sure why.

Slipping out of his own shoes Iwaizumi tugs off his suit jacket, plucking at a couple more restricting buttons on his shirt, but does nothing else to rid himself of the clothes he’s grown to hate in just a few short hours. Instead he walks towards the balcony, the sound of the busy city below and Oikawa’s voice humming some unknown melody reaching his ears before he can even make his way past the threshold.

Oikawa stands at the balcony railing, surveying the glittering lights and traffic below; tiny specks of people bustling towards some of Tokyo’s finest nightlife offerings, no doubt—perhaps even some venturing towards Iwaizumi’s usual haunts.  

The natural light overhead is thin, the moon a sliver of itself in the pitch; were they anywhere but the heart of the city Iwaizumi imagines the sky would hold more to enjoy than just smog and light pollution. Still, Oikawa’s pale complexion seems to glow as Iwaizumi’s vision adjusts to their dim surroundings. The man’s round eyes look a little glazed, maybe from the sake at dinner or maybe from something else entirely.

“Thinking about dinner?” Iwaizumi’s voice is uncomfortably loud in the meager space between them.

“Hm?” Oikawa tilts his head, but does not look in his direction. “No, no, it was fine—“

“Fine is a word people use to hide whatever it is they’re really feeling.” Iwaizumi hadn’t really meant to say it aloud, those words something reminiscent from faded memories of childhood and a feminine voice nearly forgotten. But it was instinct and it had at least drawn Oikawa’s attention.

“So philosophical.” Oikawa blinks at him; smiles grimly. “But really, I’m alright. Ushiwaka will come to terms sooner or later.”

The gears inside Iwaizumi’s mind, the ones not quite clicking since dinner, finally slide together, cogs aligning with realization. He feels the corner of his lips twitch. “I get it,” he says bluntly. “You like him.”

That gets a lovely reaction out of Oikawa, his features turning owlish before quickly hardening to hide his obvious shock with distaste. “ _Excuse me?”_ he snaps.

“Not like _that_ , dumbass.” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes habitually. “You respect him. You understand why his decision is a hard one.”

Oikawa turns away from him again, fingers curling around the railing, knuckles shockingly white under the meager moonlight. “That’s ridiculous. I want to crush him.”

Iwaizumi watches Oikawa’s teeth dig painfully into his lower lip. “Do you though?” he asks, unable to stop himself.

But Oikawa doesn’t answer the question, instead rerouting it. “It doesn’t matter if I like or if I detest Ushiwaka. It’s irrelevant because in the end a good businessman does not let himself become emotionally involved, regardless of the client.”

It’s a nice, easy, prefabricated answer. Iwaizumi hums softly, nodding to the streets below. “I’m always telling Kyoutani the same thing: don’t get emotional, don’t get personal. That’s why no kissing. It’s better to just stay numb and do your job.”

After the words have left his mouth Iwaizumi falters, eyes slowly moving back to Oikawa’s face to find the man studying him, a careful mask covering his features. But Iwaizumi thinks maybe, for just a second, he can see through it to the tiny fleck of insecurity hidden there, the one that might just match his own.

Iwaizumi swallows, hard. “I mean—“

Oikawa laughs, but it’s fake and ugly and rather unbecoming. Iwaizumi hates it. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to pretend,” Oikawa says sourly. “I’m not some naïve, love-struck teenager, Iwaizumi Hajime.”

The use of his full name shocks Iwaizumi almost to the point of flinching, but he can’t, for the life of him, understand _why_.

The silence that follows blares between Iwaizumi’s ears. He can’t begin to explain why they are even having this conversation in the first place. Why doesn’t he just leave? Or proposition Oikawa—he’s a client after all, a well-paying client and so far they’ve done very little in the way of what their contract is primarily built upon. So why, _why_ doesn’t Oikawa demand to be touched, reach out and pin Iwaizumi to the wall right here, drag him to the bed, the couch, the goddamn floor—just _fuck_ him already?

He’s entirely the opposite of any person Iwaizumi has ever been with in his life.

“You and I are a lot alike, aren’t we?” Oikawa hums, eyes narrowed as he observes Iwaizumi. “Such similar creatures.”

His tone is odd, something weighty and thoughtful with a sharp edge to it that has Iwaizumi tensing, ready for an attack he’s not sure is actually going to come. Oikawa watches him so closely, so scrutinizing until Iwaizumi can do nothing other than quirk a questioning brow in response.

Oikawa sighs inaudibly, like he’s disappointed or perhaps relieved, but he answers Iwaizumi evenly, looking him straight in the eyes. “We both screw people for money.”

The statement is self-deprecating for sure; Iwaizumi’s had his fair share of those thoughts over the years to recognize it. Of course, things like that come with the position, though he certainly has a thick enough skin not to let them get to him, he’d _chosen_ this line of work after all. But wasn’t the same true of Oikawa? The man has millions (not quite billions, if he’s to believe what he’s been told) and seems to want for little. He’s got a shark-like business sense, aptitude and, miraculously enough, _charm_ (even if Iwaizumi is loath to admit _that_ ).

But still, as with that prefabricated line, there were fissures, cracks in the façade that Oikawa Tooru had built up around himself. Something was off, Iwaizumi could see that the minute he’d rolled down his window to reveal the fakest smile Iwaizumi had ever encountered before.

To be honest, Iwaizumi much preferred the vulnerable, nervous version of this man—or perhaps even the person he became behind those wire-frame glasses reflecting UFO’s and late-night programming.

He swallows, realizing that Oikawa is still staring at him, unabashed even as his bangs blow across his forehead, tickling dangerously close to those long lashes and the large brown eyes reflecting the Tokyo skyline. But Iwaizumi really doesn’t know what to say at all.

He swallows, his throat dry. “Want to go in?”

Iwaizumi’s soft rasp of a voice seems to finally break whatever spell Oikawa had put himself under and he blinks, flicking those unruly bangs from his eyes. “Mm, it is a little windy up here.”

Unable to resist the urge to bite, Iwaizumi scowls, though the expression is a little hard to pull off as his earlier thoughts are still swirling chaotically in his mind. “That’s what you get for staying in the penthouse suite.”

Oikawa smiles knowingly, ducking his head like he’s trying to hide something. He brushes past Iwaizumi and back inside, leaving Iwaizumi to follow and close the French doors behind him with a distinct click in the silence of the large room.

“Do you want to watch something?” Iwaizumi tries hard not to feel off-kilter when he has to clear his throat in order to continue the thought. “I bet there’s something black and white and terrible on at this hour.”

He thinks for sure Oikawa will bite and whatever had transpired between them on the balcony will be washed away but the man doesn’t look up, just shaking his head.

“No, I think I’ll go to the gym for a little while,” he says soft but with some sort of practiced ease. He finally looks up then, but perhaps just to read Iwaizumi’s reaction. “Blow off some steam, you know.”

There are many _other_ ways to blow off steam, several at the forefront of Iwaizumi’s mind that would do better at ensuring Oikawa get his money’s worth. But at the way Oikawa’s shoulders slump crookedly even though his features glow with something akin to nonchalance, Iwaizumi doesn’t voice them. “Sure,” he says instead.

Oikawa doesn’t offer Iwaizumi a chance to join him and Iwaizumi figures, as with anything with Oikawa, that he has his reasons not to.

* * *

Iwaizumi finds himself slumped against the couch cushions, eyes blinking slowly open to reveal some old American movie with subtitles he doesn’t have the patience to read, as it seems he’s still half-asleep from when he’d apparently dozed off after Oikawa had left him to fend for himself. He rubs at his eyes and blinks over towards a clock hanging over the desk littered with Oikawa’s work files.

Two o’clock it reads. Funny, because they’d arrived back from dinner before ten in the evening. Has Oikawa been at the gym this whole time? Iwaizumi figures logically that Oikawa must have already returned, perhaps finding Iwaizumi already asleep on the couch without a heart to disturb him.

But, then again, that doesn’t exactly seem to fit with Oikawa’s personality as of late.

Stretching, his back aching a bit from his contorted sleeping position, Iwaizumi rises from the couch to pad towards the bedroom. Oikawa is not there, the room just as pristine as it had been since it’s meticulous cleaning earlier that day. So that leaves only one possibility.

Iwaizumi scowls at the pressed white sheets before him. Surely Oikawa has to work tomorrow ( _today_ , really), but why does Iwaizumi care? Oikawa’s sleep schedule doesn’t affect him in any way. In fact, he can have this nice king size bed all to himself.

Iwaizumi’s frown deepens; actually he doesn’t really care about the damn bed. With a soft growl Iwaizumi begins unbuttoning his hopelessly wrinkled shirt, shucking it to the floor and heads towards the dresser in search of something more suitable to go with his undershirt than dress slacks. He comes up with a pair of probably too tight running shorts, but if he feels guilty about the possibility of stretching them beyond repair he doesn’t let it show as he tugs them on, finding Oikawa’s startling shoe collection in the closet shortly after.

The gym is located in the basement of the hotel, a long boring elevator ride that thankfully goes uninterrupted due to the odd hour and Iwaizumi feels himself growing more and more irritated with each passing floor.

He finds that he is both irritated with himself and also Oikawa. But mostly just Oikawa.

When the elevator doors slide open he can already hear the slam of something hard and fast against the rubber of a gymnasium floor. It’s familiar and brings back distant memories of uncomfortable school uniforms, screeching whistles, sweat-soaked kneepads, and the satisfying sting of a callused palm. It’s overwhelming and Iwaizumi has to forcefully swallow the sensation back down as his eyes scan the expansive gym, littered with state-of-the-art equipment, until his gaze lands on the enclosed Plexiglas walls of a makeshift court.

Iwaizumi finds himself watching the man behind the glass curiously, the volleyball in his hands spinning furiously against his palms until he holds it out in front of him for the serve toss. It’s a full body movement when he goes to serve, legs powerful even obscured by his thin sweats, arms thrust back like steady wings. When Oikawa’s hand hits the ball, the sound of skin on leather makes it all the way to Iwaizumi’s ears, but it’s nothing compared to the resounding echo the ball makes when it slams onto the opposite end of the court a heartbeat later.

 _Not even a serve_ , Iwaizumi thinks after a second of awed hesitation, _but a spike._

The volleyball had ricocheted and bounced off of the wall, but the power hadn’t quite been great enough to send it straight back to Oikawa who was now taking his time bending under the net to retrieve it. Iwaizumi notices, again with open curiosity, the small oddity in Oikawa’s gate; he’s favoring his right leg.

Iwaizumi hasn’t moved from his spot near the elevator, _can’t_ for some reason, and by the time Oikawa turns around their eyes meet through the court’s glass doorway.

Oikawa looks exhausted, eyes reddened from the contacts he’s yet to remove, and complexion paler than usual. The volleyball clutched in his hands begins to spin again, almost as if on its own, but Oikawa doesn’t relinquish their eye contact and it unnerves Iwaizumi, for some incomprehensible reason.

“Why are you—” Iwaizumi starts on impulse, but then bites back the words and marches forward to wrench open the door between them.

Oikawa stops the ball’s movement, only to drop his hip in a slouch and Iwaizumi notices that the casual stance takes nearly all of the weight off of his right leg. “Can’t sleep either, Iwa-chan?” he asks, voice just annoying enough to hide his obvious breathlessness.

Iwaizumi scowls so forcefully he can nearly see the entire furrow of his own brow. “Why are you still here? Do you know what time it is?”

“Are those my shorts?” Oikawa counters, scrutinizing Iwaizumi’s hips to the point of leering.

Iwaizumi decides that indeed the shorts are much too tight, little room to hide anything at all. He shuffles almost awkwardly and the movement drags Oikawa’s eyes back upwards, though with perhaps even more scrutiny now. Wasn’t it Iwaizumi that was supposed to be doing the scrutinizing here?

“You didn’t answer my question,” Iwaizumi grunts out in favor of floundering.

Oikawa brushes some sweat-damp bangs off of his forehead, looking as though he’s mulling over just how to answer. “I’m blowing off steam,” he decides finally. “Like I said earlier.”

“It’s two in the fucking morning,” Iwaizumi points out, blunt and crossing his arms over his chest when he catches Oikawa’s attention straying again.

He seems dazed, though that doesn’t really surprise Iwaizumi; in fact, he’s a little shocked that Oikawa’s still standing at all. “You look like shit,” he adds when Oikawa doesn’t reply.

That gets the other man’s lips pouting and Iwaizumi has to remind himself to stay the course even if a tiny, _microscopic_ part of him wants to wipe that look right off Oikawa’s face with his mouth.

“You really should be nicer to me,” Oikawa says. “I am paying you after all.”

“You’re not paying me to give you false compliments and stroke your damn ego,” Iwaizumi grumbles (even though really, he sort of _is_.)

“Are you worried about me, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa’s eyes glow just a bit, his lips still puffed in a pout, but this time it’s less petulant and more— _alluring_.

Iwaizumi looks away, tightening up his scowl. “Do what you want,” he growls, redirecting the conversation himself this time. “I’m going back to bed.”

But before he can turn around and fully hide the annoying heat he can feel rising on his cheeks, Oikawa’s hand shoots out, the volleyball dropping to the floor between them awkwardly, to catch Iwaizumi’s arm.

“Do you play?” he asks, and when Iwaizumi meets his eyes they’re practically glowing with a surprising intensity that strikes him eerily familiar.

Iwaizumi can barely get himself to shrug, remembering only faintly the night previous when Oikawa had sunk to his knees, those same eyes staring up at him. “Not anymore,” he says and it’s barely a whisper.

For some reason, he expects Oikawa to look disappointed, but instead his lips just quirk into a smirk. “Did you really come all the way down here just to check on me?”

It’s a loaded question and Iwaizumi suddenly feels like he’s missing something, like he’s caught in a web, gossamer thin but steal strong and pinning him in place where Oikawa’s fingers still wrap firmly around his arm.

He remembers now too, thinking how _dangerous_ of a client Oikawa is.

_Client. Client. Client._

Iwaizumi repeats the word in his head over and over like a mantra. Oikawa continues to watch him, waiting. But Iwaizumi doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why—he doesn’t know—

Like a knee-jerk, fight-or-flight reaction Iwaizumi steps forward, pushing Oikawa backwards until his back hits the glass wall of the court with a hollow thump.

“Iwa—?” Oikawa gasps but makes no move to stop Iwaizumi when he starts to smooth his hands up under Oikawa’s shirt, tracing the muscles there still trembling with over-exertion.

The skin beneath his palms is warm but Oikawa shivers in his hold when Iwaizumi’s left-hand latches firmly against his hip and the other dips lower, teasing against the waistband of his pants.

“Can’t sleep?” Iwaizumi murmurs, low and velvet into the shell of Oikawa’s ear. “I know just the cure.”

There is a second, a heartbeat of hesitation where Iwaizumi waits to see if Oikawa will deny him, push him away. But instead, Oikawa moans softly, thrusting his hips forward in search of the friction he’s been promised.

 _This_ Iwaizumi understands. _This_ he can work with.

So, with that in mind, the drag of his fingers become insistent on removing the barrier between them. Iwaizumi pulls the layers of fabric down just enough to expose Oikawa’s cock, wet and hardening steadily as Iwaizumi ghosts a palm across the head, curling under and upwards and Oikawa can’t keep his hips from bucking forward again.

In retaliation Iwaizumi shoves a knee between Oikawa’s legs, nudging them apart and holding him open. His free hand moves from its bruising grip up to tangle in the damp locks tickling the back of Oikawa’s head, tugging just enough to reveal a long column of sensitive skin and the quiver of his throat at the rough treatment.

“Iwa—“ Oikawa gasps again, his eyes blown wide as Iwaizumi starts actually pumping his hand, thumb messily collecting pre-cum and handling Oikawa with the finesse and accuracy of an expert.

Heat pools low in Iwaizumi’s stomach as his eyes study the man before him, trying desperately to grind into Iwaizumi’s touch. Oikawa’s lips part, shining beneath the harsh gym lights, plush and inviting and so very, very dangerous.

Oikawa’s lashes dip, shadowing over creamy skin tinted with a flush that Iwaizumi knows is not from his earlier work-out and for some reason just that simple thought has Iwaizumi feeling weak. Oikawa pants out a noise, breathless and unrestrained and suddenly those ill-fitting running shorts are feeling a lot smaller than before.

Maybe Oikawa is just very sensitive to Iwaizumi’s touch and the soft trail he leaves against a trembling neck with tongue and teeth. Maybe it’s his obvious sleep deprivation, the clear amount of stress he carries on his shoulders that he tries so hard to mask from the world around him. Or maybe it’s something else altogether.

It doesn’t take long, though Iwaizumi’s seen much lesser amounts of stamina over the years and when Oikawa finally comes warm in his fist, Iwaizumi finds himself biting hard against his own lip to resist matching the intoxicating purr of Oikawa’s moan against the shell of Iwaizumi’s ear.

Their shared breathing echoes through the silence of the gym until Oikawa starts to deliberately slump down the wall, taking Iwaizumi with him.

“Watch it,” Iwaizumi grumbles, trying his best to untangle himself from Oikawa’s gangly, and apparently now useless, legs. In turn, Oikawa just hums at him, eyes blinking past the glaze to stare at Iwaizumi as he situates himself on the wall until only their shoulders are touching.

Oikawa toys with the drawstring of his sweats and watches Iwaizumi’s grimace as he stares at the sticky mess left on his fingers. After a moment of careful contemplation Iwaizumi shrugs and cleans up on the edge of Oikawa’s still too-tight shorts.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, voice hoarser than usual. He frowns, “Those are my favorite.”

Iwaizumi turns to him with a flat look. “You can buy more, Crappy-kawa.”

Oikawa gasps, appalled. “What kind of a name is that?”

“If you choose to call me whatever you please then I’ll be doing the same,” Iwaizumi answers plainly, forcing himself to hold back a smirk at Oikawa’s scrunched features.

“But I’m _paying_ you!”

“And have my services been lacking so far?” This time Iwaizumi does smirk, just a soft quirk of his mouth as he gestures not-subtly at the conspicuous stain on his (Oikawa’s) shorts. From the corner of his eye he watches Oikawa deflate, but that blush painting his cheeks only seems to grow deeper and that gives Iwaizumi the only answer he needs.

They sit quiet for a moment, staring off towards the net still strung up across the court. Iwaizumi scuffs the toe of his borrowed sneaker (gaudy teal and gold) until he feels Oikawa’s gaze shifting.

“Who’s Kyoutani?” The question comes soft and filled with curiosity and only a hint of hesitation.

The abruptness of the query should startle Iwaizumi, chase his unbidden arousal away, but somehow it doesn’t. Still he furrows his brows for show. “Hm?”

“Earlier, you mentioned someone—“

“Oh, he’s my roommate.” Iwaizumi blinks at the floor, picturing the purplish bruise marking one edge of Kyoutani’s deep-set scowl. “I took him in a couple of years ago when he had nowhere else to go.”

Oikawa nods, humming in some type of appreciation. “Ah, Iwa-chan, so noble.”

“Not really,” Iwaizumi says, a laugh rumbling from his throat. “He turns tricks for a living now too, not exactly a dream profession.”

Oikawa pokes a long finger at his shoulder and the action makes Iwaizumi tense. “But you sound like a good friend, giving advice and all that.”

Iwaizumi tries to squirm away, unsuccessfully as Oikawa goes then to knock his knee into Iwaizumi’s leg. “I guess.” He pushes at Oikawa’s leg somewhat unsuccessfully. “Though most of the time he doesn’t listen to me.”

“Sounds like my business partner, Yahaba,” Oikawa sighs. “So stubborn, I don’t know how he got that way.”

“I can take a guess,” Iwaizumi deadpans.

This finally gets Oikawa to flinch away from the casual touching, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Iwa-chan, don’t be rude.”

Iwaizumi chuckles but doesn’t push any further. As much fun as it is poking at Oikawa, he’s actually sort of enjoying the quiet easiness of their random conversation. He’s never had an opportunity to get to know a client like this before—actually, even if he’d had an opportunity, he’s never found himself wanting to take it like he does here and now with Oikawa.

“You were nervous for dinner, weren’t you?” Oikawa’s tone is teasing, but his gaze is soft around the edges as he peeks over for Iwaizumi’s response.

“What? Why would you say that?”

“Iwa-chan was worried about his table manners.”

Iwaizumi bristles, suddenly hearing Hanamaki’s teasing voice echo through his head. “How did you—“ he stutters, then stops and turns to Oikawa with a dark look. “You’re a creep.”

“I am not!” Oikawa nearly shrieks, his voice bouncing around the enclosed court like his earlier serve.  

"Well you’re _creepy_ , the way you read people,” Iwaizumi amends, though he knows it’s not much better. “It’s almost scary—ferreting out people’s weaknesses.”

Oikawa turns his nose up, taking it as a compliment. “It’s what makes me such a good businessman.”

“Hm.” Iwaizumi rubs at his chin. “No, that’s not it exactly.”

“Then you’re just being mean.”

Iwaizumi can’t help himself, watching Oikawa’s put-upon arrogance with genuine amusement. “There you go,” he teases.

“ _Iwaizumi_ —hey, what are you doing?” Oikawa nearly shrieks when Iwaizumi’s hand forces its way back to the other’s cock, groping it roughly through his sweatpants.

“Up for round two?” Iwaizumi purrs and he moves to straddle Oikawa’s sensitive hips, his own untouched hardness becoming incredibly prominent. Iwaizumi’s a hooker, he doesn’t need (or want on certain occasions) to enjoy the act of sex—his _job_ , in short. But somehow, with Oikawa, he finds himself— _susceptible_.

Oikawa swallows but looks up at Iwaizumi with a definite challenge before grinding upwards, just enough to be a tease. “I guess I should get my money’s worth, hm?”

Iwaizumi, for once, agrees with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, back from the grave. With Ushijima no less! Thanks, as always, for sticking around, reading, and commenting.


	5. just a simple touch and it can set you free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I never thought of you as the romantic type.”_   
>  _“I’m not, or have you forgotten that I’m a prostitute.”_

_So you don’t build anything, you don’t make anything—_

The words float through his mind, foggy and familiar.

_If such a circumstance would arise where you would secure control of the company, what are your plans then?_

Oikawa tosses, half-aware, but unable to quite pull himself loose from the darkness behind his still closed lids.

_You understand why his decision is a hard one._

Green eyes study him, reflecting lights of a city so large it threatens to swallow them whole.

How many more days left until those eyes are gone for good?

* * *

Oikawa wakes with a start, his dreams dissolving around him into the crisp, white sheets of a bed he doesn’t even remembering crawling into the night before.

Blinking away sleep, his eyes start to adjust to what little light filters in through the closed curtains. Far across the bed, a ravine of blankets and pillows between them, a bare back peeks through the white. The tanned skin looks warm and soft in the dim room and for a single heartbeat Oikawa has the sudden, cloying urge to reach out and run his hand down those familiar muscles.

With an impressive amount of restraint, he swallows the thought down.

Two nights now he’s slept with a prostitute—as in actually _slept_ —in the same hotel room, now the same _bed_. How ironic.

Oikawa slowly creeps out of bed, a sigh pushing stale air from his lungs when Iwaizumi doesn’t budge. The clock on the bedside table reads nearly nine o’clock and as he picks his way across the bedroom, Oikawa tries to remember the last time he’d gotten so many hours of restful sleep.

On the bathroom floor, he finds the pair of borrowed running shorts, beyond hope now and so conspicuous Oikawa decides to toss them rather than send them out with the laundry. Iwaizumi was right—he could definitely buy more.

But then that brings Oikawa to the next problem at hand.

On a leatherback stool in the kitchenette sits an empty shoe box and a bag harboring an at-once familiar label. Iwaizumi must have only visited one store yesterday, the bag holding a single extra dress-shirt, and even if Oikawa had gifted him with plenty of money, it makes sense in a way. Plain white shirts, predictable black suit—it fit Iwaizumi, the simplicity and ease of a wardrobe made uniform.

But unfortunately (for Iwaizumi, of course) that simply would not do.

When Oikawa enters back into the bedroom he doesn’t bother feigning quiet when he rifles through his closet. An unassuming grey suit today, but paired with a teal shirt and silk tie, it turns from bland to _power_.

Before donning his jacket, Oikawa takes the opportunity to drape his body against the back he’d been ogling earlier, tie tickling between sharp shoulder blades. “Get up, we’re going shopping,” he murmurs in Iwaizumi’s ear, pulling back just in time to avoid a bloody nose as the half-asleep man bucks only to burrow further into the covers.

“No,” Iwaizumi growls from beneath a pillow. “I already bought clothes.”

“ _One_ proper suit, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa straightens his tie with a simper. “Do you expect me to show up with you wearing the same exact outfit to every event? Besides, I won’t have you _borrowing_ anymore of my clothes.”

Iwaizumi peeks out from beneath the sheets now, his smirk so smug it has Oikawa nearly choking on his words.

“Just get dressed,” he grumbles, pointedly not looking at Iwaizumi’s bare chest as he stretches against the mountain of pillows around him.

“Leather or Armani?” Iwaizumi says with the driest of expressions, eyeing both sets of pants draped across the bedroom’s corner chaise. He still looks to be about half-asleep and yet somehow so purposefully infuriating.

Oikawa narrows his gaze at the smirk that’s beginning to grow into something considerably attractive, but in the end decides to ignore any further unnecessary banter (and hide the heat crawling up his neck) by storming into the living room instead.

* * *

Oikawa gets what little retribution he deserves when an hour later he’s treated to Iwaizumi’s darkest scowl yet as the graying tailor drags his measuring tape unapologetically over every nook and cranny of Iwaizumi’s stiff body.

He’d chosen the leather pants paired with an untucked and somewhat wrinkled dress shirt in perhaps some kind of spiteful move, but in the end it wasn’t Oikawa having to stand stock still on a pedestal getting his measurements taken by a man that seemed to care very little about Iwaizumi’s fashion sense or his personal boundaries.

At one point Oikawa even had to hide his laughter when the tailor made an inadvertent jab at Iwaiumi’s height, explaining the importance of a clean hem.

“Black is a good color on you, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa muses once he’s been given the liberty to start scanning the many catalogues the store has to offer. “But I’d really like to see you in something lighter, linen perhaps.”

“I really don’t give a shi—“ Iwaizumi starts to growl, arms crossing in the three-way-mirror as he catches himself awkwardly mid-word. “I mean—I don’t care, it’s up to you.”

Oikawa glances up, biting hard at the inside of his cheek to keep from openly laughing. “Of course,” he simpers, finding it easy to play along. He’s about to continue when the screen on his phone lights up on the table next to him.

“Hm,” Oikawa considers, toying with the idea of letting it go to voicemail. But when Iwaizumi of all people raises an unimpressed brow at the businessman he concedes with a put-upon sigh before answering.

“Can I assume that last night was a disaster?” Yahaba says the second he picks up, by way of greeting.

For a brief second Oikawa has to remind himself that Yahaba is speaking only of his dinner meeting with Wakatoshi and nothing else. He swallows and then plasters an innocent smile on his face just for the effect it will have on his tone. “Whatever makes you say that?”

If he is phased by the false naiveté, Yahaba doesn’t let it be known. “Ushijima is seeking a merger,” he answers bluntly.

“Of course he is,” Oikawa sighs into the receiver, because at this point nothing short of the Ushijimas actually coming to terms with Seijou will surprise him.

But of course, Yahaba’s not yet finished. “With Karasuno,” he tacks on, gracelessly and Oikawa feels his insides curdle. 

“Excuse me?” He tries not to hiss too loudly, not wanting to alert Iwaizumi or anyone else in the small shop to his sudden break in composure. Of course it doesn’t exactly work considering the way Iwaizumi watches him closely in the mirror’s reflection. “What the hell happened to their contract offer?”

“I can’t help thinking maybe a merger is what they were angling for the whole time.”

Yes, knowing Karasuno that was probably accurate. True to their namesake, they scavenged whatever they could find, feeding off the powerful entities around them, oftentimes flying right under the radar. In fact, it wasn’t that far off from Seijou’s own practices. Of course, Oikawa would be loath to admit any sort of comparison.

“Ushiwaka just can’t bear to let me win,” he spits out, annoyed. “He’s so desperate he’d rather merge with Karasuno than be picked apart by Seijou.”

“Do you really blame him?”

“Just who’s side are you on Yahaba-kun?” Oikawa sneers into the phone, unable to stop himself. Iwaizumi turns this time, much to the tailor’s annoyance as he’d been attempting to get him into some sort of cotton blazer.

Yahaba’s voice comes tentative now on the other end. “I’m—”

“Nevermind,” Oikawa cuts him off hastily. “I’m coming in now. Figure out how they could possibly be funding a merger when they’re practically hemorrhaging money.”

Whatever response he gets Oikawa doesn’t hear as he ends the call, turning his gaze up towards Iwaizumi with a practiced smile. “I’ve got to go into the office, darling,” he explains, ignoring Iwaizumi’s snort at his sugary tone. “I trust you can handle the rest on your own?”

He watches Iwaizumi’s knowing, intuitive expression fiercely, not about to break his mask even if the other man has somehow miraculously become immune. “I think I’ll manage,” Iwaizumi grunts out. If he’s surprised by Oikawa’s abrupt exit, he doesn’t let it show.

* * *

Yahaba rubs at his eye for about the hundredth time since Oikawa had arrived at the office. It’s probably twitching, but Oikawa doesn’t look up from the pen he’s been twirling between his long fingers to check for sure.

“There’s no way around it,” Yahaba sighs. “We’re going to have to set up a meeting with Karasuno.”

Oikawa, in favor of not letting lose the acid welling on his tongue in regards to _ever_ setting a meeting with Karasuno, clasps the pen in his fist, still not bothering to look up. “We don’t build anything, we don’t make anything,” he says slowly, dazedly, though it’s the most solid thought he’s had all morning.

Yahaba stares at him incredulously, Oikawa can feel it. “We _make_ money,” Yahaba huffs, impatient and clearly not understanding his partner at all. “Isn’t that what _you_ always say?”

Oikawa hums a noncommittal response, unable to find the words to agree nor argue.

Yahaba lets out another, more frustrated sound. “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you, but something’s definitely _off_ ,” he hisses. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on or am I going to have to pry it out of you.”

This time, Oikawa’s eyes flick up sharply to meet Yahaba’s narrowed, bloodshot gaze. “I’ve always admired your tenacity, Yahaba-kun.”

“Oikawa,” Yahaba snaps. “You’ve been waiting years for an opportunity to crush Ushijima.”

“Shigeru.” Oikawa stares at him openly. “Do you think I’m manipulative?”

Poor Yahaba; if his eye hadn’t been twitching before it looks as though it’s about to start. “What? No—well, maybe a little bit,” he stumbles over his words and confusion. “But that’s what makes you—“

“Good at what I do,” Oikawa finishes for him with an abrupt nod. “I’m bringing someone to the networking event tomorrow. I’d like you to meet him.”

Yahaba frowns as reality crashes back down around them. “The same date you picked to rile Ushijima up?”

“Dinner ended because of me, Yahaba-kun,” Oikawa says evenly. “No one else’s fault but my own.”

Yahaba looks a little like he might have a heart attack right there in the middle of the office. His fists are curled so tightly at his sides that the skin is turning white and his eyes are wider than usual, staring so hard at Oikawa as if he were desperately trying to see inside his partner’s head.

He’s never looked more like his mentor in this moment, and the thought chills Oikawa to the core. 

Studying Yahaba’s bloodshot eyes, Oikawa breaches the thick silence first, “Perhaps you’d like a date for the event as well? You’re looking far too stressed for someone your age.”

Yahaba gapes, trying unsuccessfully the hide his shock with a scowl. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You—”

“When was the last time you even went on a date?” Oikawa goes on, trudging straight through his own duplicity. “You really shouldn’t let work interfere with your social life, Yahaba-kun, that’s not healthy.”

“Hello, pot my name’s kettle,” Yahaba grinds out behind his teeth.

“I’ll have to ask Iwa-chan if he’s got any single friends,” Oikawa answers, not masking the slyness in his voice in the least.

Yahaba’s features soften, but only a fraction. “Iwa-chan?” he asks curiously.

But Oikawa’s already turned on his heel, stopping in the doorway to fit Yahaba with a coy look. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stay here too late, hm?”

Blinking, Yahaba can only nod and Oikawa leaves him, not acknowledging the hypocrisy in his words or the questions hanging in the air between them.

* * *

Iwaizumi stands in the middle of the penthouse bathroom, cool marble under his bare feet. He’s already put away the haul of clothes he’d made off with today—most of which will probably be worn once, in Oikawa’s presence, and then hawked because really, who’s ever heard of a hooker in Prada?

He chuckles to himself at the ridiculous idea, staring thoughtfully at the inlaid tub taking up residence in the middle of the room, gold fixtures and all. He’s never really been the type of person to take baths; showering is efficient and bathing seems frivolous and time consuming.

Of course, that certainly seems like just the reason his _employer_ would covet a tub like this.

When Oikawa had all but fled to the office earlier, Iwaizumi had detected the faintest fissures in his casual nature. It was becoming hard not to notice, actually. Maybe that has to do with their intimate relationship—or maybe it has to do with something else entirely. Iwaizumi decides to bank on the former, either way.

The sun’s slowing dipping in the sky when Iwaizumi decides against his better judgement to fill the tub, conveniently large enough for two. There’s all manner of soaps and oils still lining the counter, but he manages to find something sugary and warm scented on the Ritz provided tray, next to where he’s been keeping his ( _much too risqué, Iwa-chan)_ studs and earrings. The bubbles form quick and fluffy and for a second Iwaizumi regrets building up such a disgustingly romantic scene before he even knows if Oikawa’s going to make it home before dinner.

Somewhere in the bedroom there’s still a wad of bills burning a hole in his prized leather pants and the thought forces Iwaizumi into the tub just as the water reaches nearly too high.

He’s loath to admit that it’s actually pretty fucking fantastic.

A few minutes of peaceful silence is all Iwaizumi gets to enjoy before the sound of the front door clicking open forces him back into work mode again.

“Honey, I’m home!” Oikawa calls out and Iwaizumi cringes at the voice’s predictable falsity. And yet somehow, he can’t quite keep the smirk off his face either.

He hears the padding of quick footsteps and watches Oikawa pass by the open bathroom door. It takes a second, but when the man backpedals to stare wide-eyed across the expanse of marble Iwaizumi can’t help himself from feeling a bit smug at the reaction.

It doesn’t take much for Oikawa’s expression to morph from surprise to blasé, however. “What? No rose petals?” he scoffs airily, making his way towards Iwaizumi with measured steps.

Iwaizumi fits him with a stony look. “I’m fucking naked in your bathtub, what _else_ do you want?”

“True,” Oikawa nods, lips spreading into a wide conspiratorial grin.

Iwaizumi cocks his head at that, wondering what it is that they’d even be conspiring about. “You seem like you’re in a better mood,” he suggests. “Good day at work?”

“Awful, actually,” Oikawa replies, still smiling. His expression is entirely counter to his words. “So is this an invitation to join?”

Iwaizumi bites the inside of his cheek to keep straight-faced. “Nope.”

Oikawa starts to pout, but it’s clear he’s picked up on Iwaizumi’s sarcasm when he begins undressing anyways. “You’re lucky you’re hot, Iwa-chan.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

With his shirt halfway unbuttoned, Oikawa stops to peer over at Iwaizumi with a hopeful look, but manages to hold back any prodding comment. Iwaizumi realizes abruptly that without the comment he can’t deny his roundabout compliment. Irritating, but clever.

Yet even so, it would be a lie to say Oikawa’s _not_ attractive. Even with his toxic, cloying personality, Iwaizumi’s not _blind_. The dark circles under his eyes and the little cowlick he doesn’t seem to notice don’t cancel out the fact that Oikawa is (dare he admit it) damn gorgeous.

Iwaizumi swallows and averts his eyes unnecessarily when Oikawa strips down. It’s not as if they both haven’t seen the other naked before, but somehow in this scenario it seems so much more— _personal_. How fucking stupid is that?

Oikawa must notice Iwaizumi’s odd behavior because he can’t stop himself from laughing as he slips bodily into the tub. The influx of extra limbs sloshes the water dangerously and Oikawa attempts to make himself comfortable, stretching his long legs and rubbing his knees against Iwaizumi’s spread thighs unapologetically.

Iwaizumi growls at the tightness of their new position and on impulse reaches out to grab Oikawa by the wrist, tugging him forward. It takes some twisting and turning and spilling of water onto the floor, but somehow Iwaizumi manages to wrap himself around Oikawa, forcing him to lean back against him with a huff.

For a few heartbeats Oikawa’s body is tense and stiff in his grasp and Iwaizumi is just about to push him away with a stunted apology, but like a flip of a switch Oikawa sighs and sinks further into the water and consequently further into Iwaizumi.

“This is nice,” he murmurs contentedly. “I never thought of you as the romantic type.”

“I’m not, or have you forgotten that I’m a prostitute.” Iwaizumi glares at the top of Oikawa’s head.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t understand the art of romance,” Oikawa replies flippantly, swishing his toes through the bubbles in front of them.

Iwaizumi snorts, mostly because Oikawa’s waves are tickling his nose. “I’d say I’m more accustomed to the art of seduction and hustling rich guys out of their money.”

He pointedly _doesn’t_ think about what Oikawa had said the night before— _such_ _similar creatures_.

Oikawa sighs and Iwaizumi feels the motion of it through his entire body. “Iwa-chan, you do realize you’re cuddling in a bubble bath right now, don’t you?”

Iwaizumi jerks, wrapping his arms more tightly around Oikawa’s middle. “I’ll dunk you right now, Shitty-kawa.”

Laughter trickles out of Oikawa, un-phased and Iwaizumi realizes belatedly just how much closer he’s brought their bodies, specifically their lower halves.

“When I hired you, this isn’t exactly what I’d expected,” Oikawa says after a few more breathless laughs.

 _Me either_ , Iwaizumi thinks with a deep scowl. What exactly was he doing here? Why’d he think this was a good idea? Why would he—

“But thank you,” Oikawa continues, voice softer now, perhaps even genuine. “I think I needed this.”

Iwaizumi swallows down his mild panic, going to release his grip on Oikawa but not quite able to when the other decides to start tracing nonsense patterns against his forearm beneath the water. He wonders if Oikawa even realizes he’s doing it.

Maybe, somehow subconsciously he’d done this in response to Oikawa’s obvious anxiety the night before. Maybe it was a preemptive measure to ensure himself not having to make a trip down to the gym to drag Oikawa’s exhausted ass back upstairs at two in the morning.

At the memory Iwaizumi’s eyes flicker to the side; Oikawa has his leg bent and leaning against the edge of the tub, just a small bit of skin peeking out beneath the water and fluffy suds surrounding them, but it’s enough for Iwaizumi to see that his knee looks aggravated, perhaps even a bit swollen.

There is some strange compulsion that hits Iwaizumi then, his hand cutting through the water until it immerges, dripping and reaches over. He feels Oikawa shift in front of him at the abrupt movement and both of their eyes watch as Iwaizumi hovers his hand over Oikawa’s knee, rivulets of warm water reaching his skin before Iwaizumi’s fingers can press into it themselves.

He stops himself at the last second, hovering with an inch of space between his hand and Oikawa’s leg and even though they are touching in nearly every other capacity, the boundary there seems somehow unbreakable.

“Sorry,” Iwaizumi mutters through a jaw he hadn’t even realized he’d been grinding.

Oikawa moves again, but not away from him like Iwaizumi had assumed. Instead he shifts his leg with the barest of movements until it’s pressing against Iwaizumi’s palm.

It is indeed swollen and if Iwaizumi could see Oikawa’s face right now he thinks it might be scrunched in pain, or at least discomfort.  

They sit like that for a while, time seeming to crawl by, and Iwaizumi doesn’t dare move his hand, flinch away in apology or smooth it soothingly against Oikawa’s soft skin.

“Old injury,” Oikawa says finally, so quietly that at first Iwaizumi doesn’t register that the words are meant for him to hear.

“Does it hurt?”

Oikawa makes a noncommittal sound that Iwaizumi can’t interpret and instead says, “I aggravated it last night. Too many jump serves.”

Iwaizumi has the odd urge to gripe at Oikawa that he should know better, if it’s a reoccurring injury, but he swallows that down. “Anything I can do?” he asks instead, trying for neutral but coming off much too concerned.

“No, you’ve already done enough,” Oikawa mumbles and he sounds utterly exhausted. “A hot bath always helps. How did you know?”

There’s something strange about the lump that forms in Iwaizumi’s throat. He _didn’t_ know. Did he?

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t think Oikawa really expects him to anyways. 

* * *

That night, an orgasm or two later, Iwaizumi amazingly lets Oikawa curl up against him in bed.

Even though this is not real, Oikawa finds that the human contact and the fake pet names are _something_ at least. He truly enjoys Iwaizumi’s company and even if this week is certainly not going to _fix_ him, it’s nice to have someone at least pretend to care.

On the nightstand his phone goes off for what seems like the hundredth time since he’d left the office. He can imagine the emails flooding his inbox and, more likely than not, a few text messages from Yahaba checking in on him or, more accurately, panicking about tomorrow.

He must make some noise at the thought because suddenly Iwaizumi’s poking at him, literally.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice a rumble from his chest where Oikawa is unapologetically laying his head.

“Oh nothing,” Oikawa sighs. “It’s just Yahaba-kun—he’s so brittle and uptight I’m afraid he’s going to snap one of these days. But will he listen to me—?”

“Sounds like he needs to get laid.”

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” Oikawa admonishes, but then a smirk curves his lips. “I was thinking the same thing. Have you got someone in mind?”

Iwaizumi chuckles and the sound is deep as it vibrates through Oikawa’s bones pleasantly. “Maybe.”

* * *

To no great surprise, it takes a bit of convincing on Iwaizumi’s part to get Kyoutani to agree. In the end most of the convincing, of course, comes in the form of Oikawa’s ridiculous bank account.

They meet up in the late afternoon at some place Iwaizumi’s never heard of in Shinjuku with a rooftop garden. It’s strange (at least he assumes) not to have to wear one of the stuffy suits Oikawa’s forced him into owning, but rather the white linen button down and slacks the businessman had been so keen on seeing him in.

Kyoutani, on the other hand, is a different story.

He’s dressed himself in a black shirt and black jeans paired with his least scuffed boots; actually it’s the most conservative Iwaizumi’s ever seen him, tattoos and all.

“Nice shirt,” Kyoutani smirks, running his eyes up and down Iwaizumi purposefully. He's still got a couple of visible bruises from his last fight. 

Iwaizumi bites back a smirk of his own at Kyoutani’s familiar lip and instead gestures to the man awkwardly hovering behind him. “Oikawa, this is Kyoutani Kentarou.”

“Ah, Iwaizumi’s told me so much about you.” Oikawa puts way too much flair into his voice and Iwaizumi fights back a snort at that. “It’s nice to meet you, Kyouken-chan.”

Now Iwaizumi does laugh, because the look of utter terror on Oikawa’s face when Kyoutani hears his new nickname is absolutely priceless (even if Iwaizumi had predicted the entire thing from the start).

“Ignore him, he’s an idiot about names,” Iwaizumi quickly reassures before Kyoutani can give Oikawa a (kind of deserved) bloody nose. “ _And_ he’s paying you.”

At that reminder Kyoutani does back down, if begrudgingly.

“Just be yourselves,” Oikawa trills once they’re standing elbow to elbow in a polished chrome elevator.

Kyoutani quirks a pointed brow, first at Oikawa and then at Iwaizumi, who meets it with a roll of his eyes.

Oikawa bristles as realization seems to wash over him. “Actually—maybe _not_ yourselves.”

“Think anyone will recognize us?” Kyoutani grumbles out, looking just a bit apprehensive to Iwaizumi’s trained eye.

Oikawa snorts a laugh at that, not able to hide his scoff at the idea. “These people don’t exactly spend their time in the red-light district.”

Because Oikawa is starting to stray into that bratty attitude of his, Iwaizumi can’t resist nudging into his side with an elbow. “ _You_ did, dumbass.”

Oikawa’s face pinches unattractively. “That’s different! I was lost.”

“Oh, I remember _dear_.”

Amidst a few more disgruntled noises from Oikawa, Iwaizumi catches Kyoutani’s not-so-subtle stare at the false pet-name. He’s about to defend himself when the elevator doors ding open and suddenly, Iwaizumi begins to think this was probably a bad idea.

As they step out of the elevator Iwaizumi feels like he’s stepped into another dimension altogether. All things considered he hadn’t been expecting such a lavish affair; Oikawa had described it as a garden party, but this is over the top, even for Oikawa’s standards.

Waiters meander about carrying trays of champagne and white wine and it’s only just now hitting noon on a weekday. There’s at least two other bars that he can see, fully stocked with top shelf shit that he knows Hanamaki would die for, Matsukawa not far behind.

But the scenery is even more impressive. It is, in fact, a garden party—in that the entire rooftop is covered in stone walkways and freshly trimmed spring green turf. Between the grassy areas lay beds of bright pink azaleas and dark blue ponds filled with koi of all sizes and colors.

It’s incredible, unbelievable even. He’s never been anywhere like _this_ before.

“Just follow my lead,” Oikawa murmurs to both he and Kyoutani before he saunters forward like he owns the place.

But at this point, it wouldn’t have surprised Iwaizumi if Oikawa _did_ own the place.

Oikawa just blends right in. His wingtip shoes are flashy, the cream and mahogany nearly clashing with the blue of his pants and the crisp whiteness of his shirt, but the outfit does not scream _gaudy_ as much as it does _power_ on someone like Oikawa Tooru.

It’s hard not to notice all the eyes turning towards him as they make their way through a few throngs of guests towards one of the bigger gardens boasting a buffet of colorful hors d’oeurvres.

They stop abruptly beneath a trellis of lacey wisteria, Kyoutani nearly slamming into Oikawa before quickly backpedaling as the taller man turns on him with a knowing glance over his stiff posture and clenched jaw.

If the display around them has made Iwaizumi tense, it’s made Kyoutani look like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. No surprise there, but still Iwaizumi feels a little guilty for not fully explaining what they’d be getting themselves into here. (Of course, it’s not as though his ‘employer’ did the best job of explaining things either.)

Iwaizumi is about to make some crass remark, for the sake of Kyoutani’s sanity at least, but Oikawa beats him to it.

“It’s an open bar Kyouken-chan,” Oikawa purrs. “If anyone gives you a hard time, just mention my name.”

For a second Kyoutani studies him, wary. But then he grunts in acknowledgment before turning on his heel and stalking away. It’s the most thanks Oikawa’s going to get, but from the look on his face it seems like Oikawa’s already figured that out.

“He’s good at what he does,” Iwaizumi says apologetically, even though there’s really no reason to be apologizing at all.

“I have no doubt.”

Oikawa focusses on him. His eyes are bright and fiery, more so than a few moments ago on the ground floor, and Iwaizumi realizes that this is a side of Oikawa that he’s still not quite yet used to.

They stand there for a moment regarding one another and Iwaizumi wonders (for the umpteenth time) what exactly his purpose here is anyways. Maybe arm candy, but again it seems like Oikawa could get that in spades.

 _I really don’t need any unnecessary romantic entanglements this week_ , Oikawa’s voice echoes in his mind. It makes sense, but still there’s something that hovers in the air between them that Iwaizumi can’t quite interpret—

A chorus of feminine voices violently interrupts Iwaizumi’s trailing thoughts and when Oikawa’s eyes flicker over his shoulder he follows his gaze to the group of women moving towards them, heels clicking against the flagstone path.

“Oikawa-san, you look as handsome as ever,” a women with dark, styled hair simpers, raising her half-drunk champagne glass in Oikawa’s direction.

From the corner of his vision Iwaizumi sees Oikawa smile, the forced, plastic one he seems to save for people he cares very little about.

“Ladies,” Oikawa greets with a tip of his head and—was that an actual wink? Iwaizumi doesn’t have time to question it though, since Oikawa’s wrapping his arm around his waist and forcefully pulling him forward.

“This is Iwaizumi Hajime,” he announces, smile cracking into one a bit more smug than before.

“Pleasure to meet you Iwaizumi-san,” one of the women greets and Iwaizumi can tell, with no uncertainty, that she’s trying even harder than Oikawa to keep up appearances here.

“Oh, Nakamura-san—“ Oikawa suddenly raises a hand, looking straight over the group of admirers towards a couple of graying businessmen. He turns with a clearly forced apology. “If you’ll excuse me—business calls.”

Iwaizumi’s sure as hell going to fleece him for some sort of overtime for this shit, but he lets Oikawa make his escape without a protest, turning towards the remaining group of women who seem to be eyeing him expectantly.

Or maybe that’s a hint of jealousy in their pursed expressions?

The flock continues to make polite gossip among themselves, sparing Iwaizumi very few details and doing a damn good job of making him feel inferior—if he was the kind of person to care about that shit, which (unbeknownst to them) he isn’t.

In lieu of feeding into their obvious game, Iwaizumi searches out Oikawa’s tall frame through a sea of oxfords and cocktail dresses. He’s about to make his own polite escape, readying some choice words in regard to Oikawa’s purposeful abandonment, when the woman with the dark styled hair notices his obvious gaze.

“Good luck locking _him_ down,” she says with a scoff, painted lips pulling down as she regards him with false pity. “Oikawa Tooru is Sendai’s most eligible bachelor, but he’s _never_ been in a long-term relationship.”

Iwaizumi bites his tongue, telling himself that it’s not worth it, telling himself to smile and nod and play along. But hell, he’s not _that_ strong willed, eight-hundred-thousand yen or not.

“Is that so?” he says as dryly as possible. He stares at the women with as much of a leer as he can manage. “Good thing I’m just using him for sex then.” 

It’s satisfying, the gasps his words pull from the group of women, but Iwaizumi doesn’t bother to stick around and hear any more of their condescension. He should probably find the nearest bar, and therefore Kyoutani before his roommate does something stupid, but instead he catches a familiar face in the distance. She waves to him enthusiastically and Iwaizumi decides that a little bit of socialization at Oikawa’s expense couldn’t hurt.

* * *

After schmoozing past a few rich old men and their pretty young wives, Oikawa finally finds Yahaba nursing a strong looking drink near the koi pond.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Yahaba snaps at him, though there’s very little venom behind his words. “So? Where’s this date of yours?”

“Hello to you too,” Oikawa sniffs, though he can’t help but find Yahaba’s annoyance somewhat amusing. “He’s mingling with the wives,” he says with an honest laugh and a gesture behind him.

Yahaba’s eyes dart to find the golden skinned man surrounded by Oikawa’s usual groupies and the way his gaze widens has Oikawa subtly preening. It’s not like his business partner and dearest friend doesn’t know about some of his tastes and proclivities, but this is certainly the first time Oikawa’s paraded around a man of Iwaizumi’s caliber at an event such as this.

“Not what you were expecting?”

Sadly, Yahaba doesn’t jump at the bait, instead quickly morphing his genuine surprise into something of a smirk. “Threw him to the dogs already?”

Oikawa meets his expression with a grin of his own, honest and sharp. “He can handle himself.” And knowing what he does about Iwaizumi, that statement is more than true.

“So, how did you two meet?” Yahaba asks, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“Since when did you become so invested in my personal life?” Oikawa asks with a huff before quickly adding, “Really, Yahaba-kun, we should be discussing business not Iwaizumi.”

Yahaba steps towards him abruptly, drink swirling dangerously in his fingers, and fits Oikawa with a disbelieving scowl. “I’ve been trying to discuss business with you _all_ week!”

“How much have you had to drink, Shigeru?” Oikawa asks, just to get under the other man’s skin.

Yahaba scoffs but doesn’t actually answer the question, throwing back the rest of his drink in some sort of childish retribution. “Oikawa,” he says around a swallow. “What the _fuck_ is going on with you lately?”

Oddly enough, Yahaba’s tone and word choice reminds Oikawa pointedly of the acquaintance he’d made recently at the graciousness of Iwaizumi and another heavy check made out to cash.

“There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

Yahaba seems to calm at that, stepping backwards with a curious hum. “A new business venture?”

Oikawa pretends to mull the question over before shaking his head. “No, not exactly.”

The frown Yahaba gives him is a mixture of confusion and apprehension. “Then—who is it?”

Oikawa decides his caution is rather adorable. Unable to stop himself, he grins cheekily. “I’ve brought you a date. You can thank me later.”

“Excuse me?” Yahaba blinks, a few strands of honey-blond hair twitching across his forehead as he turns to Oikawa in disbelief.

Oikawa’s not sure if he’s speechless or busy working up just the right scathing words, but instead of waiting around to see he grabs Yahaba’s empty glass and tugs him around to face the nearest bar and the man hovering there dressed in all black with a resident scowl on his (surprisingly) attractive features.

“His name’s Kyoutani and I think he’s just what you need.”

Oikawa expects perhaps a major meltdown or at least some form of argument, but Yahaba’s voice comes out soft, almost inquisitive. “Who is he?” he wonders. His gaze hasn’t left Kyoutani and Oikawa thinks if they keep this up, the man’s sure to notice the blatant staring any minute now.

“He’s—a coworker of Iwaizumi’s,” Oikawa answers and he’s proud to say it’s not even a hint of a lie.

They stand like that, for a moment, side by side and Oikawa can practically see the wheels turning in Yahaba’s mind as he continues to study his apparent blind date. Kyoutani’s good looking, built too with muscles sculpted enough to almost rival Iwaizumi’s own; it’s really no surprise that Yahaba would find him intriguing, Oikawa knows him so well, after all—

“This—” Yahaba’s voice goes from calm to severe in a second flat and Oikawa realizes that _maybe_ he’d been mistaken. “ _This_ is who you’d choose for me, Oikawa? Are you fucking—”

“Look, so he’s not the type you’d normally go for,” Oikawa huffs, meeting Yahaba’s scowl with an unimpressed quirk of his brow. “I’m not asking you to _marry_ the guy.”

"Oh, so you just expect me to sleep with him?” Yahaba looks like he might actually combust this time around. “Does _he_ know that?”

“Calm down, Yahaba-kun,” Oikawa waves him off, not about to take any responsibility for his partner’s stress-levels. “We were only trying to help.”

“Speaking of ‘ _we_.’” Crossing his arms firmly over his chest, Yahaba’s eyes narrow considerably. “Iwaizumi isn’t exactly your _type_ either. Tell me, where’d you meet him?”

This time Oikawa can’t exactly dodge the question. “I needed directions and he was more than accommodating,” he answers honestly.

“And you were in the Aston Martin at the time?”

“Yes and what does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Yahaba flicks a hand through the air and turns his nose up to stare pointedly at something over Oikawa’s shoulder. “You know he’s fraternizing with the enemy as we speak.”

True enough when Oikawa turns to follow Yahaba’s sharp gaze he finds Iwaizumi mid-conversation with Kimiko, his smile wide and charming as ever. Something in Oikawa’s stomach drops at the sight, but not for the reason Yahaba is currently implying.

“They met at dinner the other night,” Oikawa says slowly, by way of answering. He can feel something start to heat beneath the surface, growing slowly with every touch of Kimiko’s fingers against Iwaizumi’s shoulder. His fingers curl at his sides as he tries not to let Yahaba see them shake.

 “It all just seems a little too convenient to me,” Yahaba scoffs, not quite able to fight back an eye roll. “How do you know he’s not some kind of spy for Ushijima?”

At those words Oikawa finally snaps, his eyes shifting from Iwaizumi back to Yahaba, vicious and serious as his hand automatically latches onto his partner’s arm, squeezing. “He’s a fucking hooker, okay? I picked him up in the red-light district. I _paid_ him. He’s not some industry spy, he’s just a _prostitute_. Happy now?”

The two don’t usually argue like this, especially not in public, and Oikawa can count on one hand the number of times either one has been the slightest bit physical with the other. Yahaba stares at him, not with fear but with concern in his round gaze, and relaxes in Oikawa’s grip, surrendering.

 “Are you serious?” Yahaba finally whispers, sounding entirely out of breath. “Then—then that means—“

Oikawa follows his eyes back to Kyoutani and his not-very-hidden tattoos, black stud earrings, and tight jeans.  

“Yeah.” He swallows, breathing in a steadying breath before continuing. “I already paid him, so do what you want. But remember this—Iwaizumi is a good man, he’s a hustler, but he’s not a lowlife criminal.” He watches the way Yahaba almost flinches at his words. “And by the way he vouches for Kyouken-chan, I’m willing to bet the same of him.”

“Oikawa—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Oikawa releases his hold, fitting him with a reassuring smile. “I know, Yahaba-kun,” he says, because it’s true.

As Yahaba seems to gather his thoughts, Oikawa looks out across the gardens in search of Iwaizumi again, feeling suddenly like he wants to whisk the man away from here, business be damned.

“Do you—Oikawa, do you _like_ him?” Yahaba finally manages to stutter out.

But Oikawa doesn’t really hear the implication there because he’s too busy glaring daggers across the koi pond, heart suddenly beating against his rib cage and for once it’s got nothing to do with Iwaizumi at all.

“ _Goddammit_ ,” he hisses out and Yahaba quickly searches out the reasoning for his abrupt change in tone.

There, reflection’s glistening against the dark water, stand the only group of men that can manage to infuriate Oikawa more than Ushiwaka himself.

_Karasuno._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there, kyouhaba. (I'm going to have to write a side story for them now, aren't I?)


	6. you don't have to run, i know what you've been through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Who’s the suit, ace?” ___

It’s been some time since he’s seen Kageyama Tobio in person. 

He hasn’t changed much, though he never really did; Kageyama had always been somewhat of a stagnant person. Of course, outward appearances weren’t everything, even for Oikawa himself. But somehow, he had a hard time imagining Kageyama ever becoming someone accepting of evolution.

But who knows what effect being taken under the wing of Karasuno has had on his former employee. 

He hadn’t defected, he’d been pushed out, but Oikawa was too proud at the time to admit anything of the sort. 

Maybe now he is still too proud. 

“It’s not surprising they’d show up here,” Yahaba hums, voice trying for neutral but Oikawa can detect the apprehension there. He’s not sure if it’s apprehension towards Karasuno or towards Oikawa’s rapidly growing irritation.

Yahaba is right—it’s not surprising, but still annoying and not something Oikawa had prepared to deal with today. Wakatoshi, certainly. Sawamura Daichi and his unpredictable murder of crows, certainly _not_. 

Today, however, it’s less of a flock and more of a smattering. Oikawa can recognize all four of them easily, flicking through their names in the rolodex of his mind. They haven’t yet noticed he and Yahaba across the pond, watching them closely. 

Sawamura looks perhaps a little bit older, maybe even starting to gray at the edges of his clean-cut hair. He’s always been formidable, in looks and business sense, and Oikawa can’t deny that he respects the man. 

However, his second in command is an entirely different story. Sugawara—the first time they’d met Oikawa had underestimated him greatly, resulting in a memorable humiliation in front of some important clients and Oikawa’s everlasting rivalry with the sharp-tongued devil hiding beneath that refreshing exterior. 

Behind Karasuno’s front lines, Kageyama looks to be making stunted small talk with a shorter man, almost forgettable in appearance, but Oikawa knows from a reliable source that Ennoshita is the man Sawamura’s been subtly grooming to take his place when the time comes. 

They’re missing a few key players, but Oikawa takes that as a point in his favor. From experience, these few are the least aggressive and problematic; probably Sawamura’s reasoning in selecting them for an event such as this. 

When he finally catches Sugawara’s eye, Oikawa tries his best to smooth any ruffled feathers before they can make it over to him. Now is not the time for petty rivalries, he knows, but there’s this underlying tension that’s been burning through him since his dinner with Wakatoshi, since he’d learned of Karasuno’s intentions, that he can’t seem to quell. 

Earlier he’d assumed Kagayama hadn’t changed, but now as the younger man comes to stand before him, having the audacity to bow his head in polite respect, he can sense something’s changed. Where Kageyama’s sharp edges had once been, there seems to be something less rough, less self-serving.It’s unnerving, but Oikawa channels that feeling straight into annoyance. 

“Oikawa-san,” Kageyama greets, and even if he seems to have grown out of some of his bad habits he’s still just as awkward as ever. “How are you?”

“Tobio-chan.” Oikawa looks down his nose, appraisingly. “You do realize you’re attempting to make polite pleasantries with someone you’re trying to fuck over.”

On instinct Yahaba’s had flinches out to grab at his wrist, his eyes blazing in warning when Oikawa meets them. He takes a breath, if only to appease his partner and turns back to the men before him with a falsely apologetic smile.

“Yes, how have you been?” Oikawa tries again with a simper. “We’ve been doing quite well for ourselves at Seijou, as you know.”

“We don’t mean to be treading on your toes lately,” Ennoshita says, his eyes hooded but earnest. “Business is business.”

“Of course—” Yahaba starts to answer agreeably, but Oikawa just can’t manage to stop himself.

“All thing’s told, you know Ushiwaka has a soft spot for me,” he interrupts. “A merger really isn’t in his best interests.” 

Sawamura meets his sour expression with a smile, hard around the edges. “In the end, that isn’t really for Karasuno or Seijou to decide.”

“Certainly not,” Oikawa agrees with a smirk. “Where’s Chibi-chan, anyways? You don’t seem to function without him these days, Tobio.” 

It’s pleasant, the way Kageyama’s entire body tenses at the mere mention of his conspicuously absent coworker. Oikawa thinks he shouldn’t enjoy the dark look he’s met with, but he revels in it just the same.

“Hinata is handling a deal in Osaka. Contrary to your thoughts, all our employees are quite capable on their own,” Sugawara answers easily, saving Kageyama from rising to the bait. Oikawa does not miss the fierceness in his gaze.

“I apologize if I’ve hit a nerve,” he says, disingenuous, but with a soft tone just the same. “I’ve always maintained that a team is stronger together than separate.” 

Sugawara cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “Yet, you want to tear Ushijima’s business apart,” he replies. “And we want to build something with it.”

It’s not the tone that sets Oikawa aflame, nor Sugawara’s sharp tongue. It’s the implication and the memory that keeps replaying in Oikawa’s mind, like a scratching record, that has him seeing red. _You don’t build anything, you don’t make anything—_

“You don’t know anything about what I want,” he hisses, stepping forward, his height overpowering the other’s slighter stature easily. 

“Tooru—” Yahaba starts hesitantly and Oikawa can sense the uncertainty in his voice. Normally, he’d agree that he’s acting unreasonable, deceitful even but this time it’s true. They don’t know anything anymore, Yahaba included. 

His hands shake in fists at his sides and the terrifying, vulnerable sense of losing control starts to take over, but then there are fingers digging into Oikawa’s shoulder, pulling him away from the precipice. 

“Oikawa!” Iwaizumi is yelling, his voice deep and dominant in Oikawa’s foggy mind. “Calm down.”

Oikawa breathes out, finally, head clearing and turning to meet Iwaizumi’s scowl with an unsteady expression. “Hajime?”

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says and this time his voice is soft, maybe softer than Oikawa has ever heard it before. 

Swallowing, Oikawa blinks his gaze back to Karasuno only to find that Yahaba’s done a wonderful job at damage control. Oikawa thinks he remembers Yahaba and Ennoshita being classmates at one time in university together, maybe. 

If anyone is surprised by Oikawa’s harsh words or unrefined behavior they don’t show it, least of all Kageyama who has seemed to make a full recovery, staring openly at Iwaizumi with obvious curiosity in his round, blue eyes. 

It’s a wonder no one else around them had gotten drawn in by the tense scene Oikawa had unwittingly constructed for himself. No one else, that is, except for Kyoutani who approaches behind Iwaizumi hesitantly, hackles raised. 

“It really is good to see you,” comes a voice to his right and Oikawa’s head spins to meet Sugawara’s genuine demeanor back in place. “Take care of yourself?”

Oikawa nods because something in his brain tells him to and then when Sugawara starts to turn away he realizes abruptly that they’re leaving—or at the very least leaving him. 

Had he really let himself get so caught up? How embarrassing.

“Yes,” he breathes out, giving Sugawara a watery smile. “You too.” 

He watches them go, Kageyama lingering behind the others by a few odd paces and Oikawa wonders truly how he’s fairing at Karasuno. He seemed better, but it’s hard to be sure. 

“Are you okay?” Yahaba appears next to him, gaze appraising and a bit ruffled. Oikawa wonders if that’s from his most recent outburst or Kyoutani’s new proximity. 

Oikawa turns to face his partner, blinking and pulling down his mask. “I apologize.” He bows his head, trying desperately for genuine. “I haven’t been myself lately.”

He is not, however, rewarded for his efforts by a breezy smile and Yahaba’s usual acceptance. 

“Trust me, I know,” Yahaba grits out and Oikawa flinches at the escalation of his tone. “All this over a goddamn hooker? Really, Tooru?” 

His words echo through Oikawa’s head and before he can do anything else he’s turning to find Iwaizumi blinking strangely first at Yahaba and then at Oikawa himself. 

“Iwa-chan—”

In one breath their eyes are locked and in the next Iwaizumi’s turned his back, leaving Oikawa behind just like everyone always seems to do. 

How many people had heard Yahaba’s outburst? Oikawa can’t even begin to think about it as his mind screams at his body to move, to go after him, to just do something, _anything_. 

He’s frozen. Someone’s speaking to him, maybe Yahaba, maybe even Kyoutani. It doesn’t matter though because the only person he wants to talk to right now is gone out of his sight, lost somewhere behind a layer of wisteria and betrayal. 

“Oikawa, I’m sorry I—”

He turns to find Yahaba stammering, eyes wide and genuine, yet confused just the same. Of course, he doesn’t understand. Why would he? Oikawa can’t fault him for that. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Oikawa grinds out, because truly he can’t be blamed. “Enjoy your date,” he adds, with no hint of innuendo or condescension because there’s really no reason to throw Yahaba and Kyoutani under the bus at this point. 

At his words Kyoutani visibly stiffens, but does not immediately bolt like Oikawa had assumed might happen. Instead he drifts just the tiniest bit closer to Yahaba, who’s shoulders are still shaking with obvious guilt and regret.

With his partner seemingly taken care of for the moment, Oikawa turns with quick, uncoordinated steps to go after Iwaizumi. He doesn’t even register the watching eyes around him, pushing his way past the onlookers and embarrassment with a tunnel vision he’ll be thankful for later. 

The elevator ride down seems an eternity longer than it had coming up and this time Oikawa’s stomach is filled with a different kind of anxiety altogether. 

His shoes click rapidly against the floor as he rushes towards the front entry, pushing the door open with a splayed palm on the glass, leaving smudges behind on the pristine surface, handle ignored. 

Oikawa breathes out, eyes flicking down the sidewalk but coming up short, his legs slamming to a halt a second later. There, standing by the valet stand, is Iwaizumi. He could have gotten a cab, started towards the train station, anything. But—he hadn’t.

Oikawa approaches, cautious, but when Iwaizumi turns to meet him, his features are a carefully constructed neutral. “Let’s go,” he says, gesturing to Oikawa’s pocket where he knows the valet slip resides. 

Staring, Oikawa can only obey, reaching into his pants for the scrap of yellow paper to hand to the bored young valet unaware of what it is he’s currently a witness to. 

He had expected him to run, had expected to never see him ever again. Oikawa’s lips tremble at the corners, but Iwaizumi’s already turning away. 

When the car arrives, Iwaizumi let’s Oikawa drive and makes no remarks or criticisms the entire way back to the hotel. 

* * *

The penthouse, for all its grandeur, is nothing but a husk of luxury when Oikawa follows Iwaizumi inside. The air around them is thick, toxic enough that Oikawa makes the immediate move towards the balcony, only to be stopped when Iwaizumi turns to pin him with an uncharacteristically stricken glare.

“I don’t get it—you force me to play dress up, you prance me around your stupid party like I’m one of those fucking decorative wives—and for what?” he says and it sounds desperate, nearly aching from his throat and Oikawa startles at that. “If you were just going to tell everyone I’m a hooker, why the hell’d you make me go there and fuck around pretending like I’m something I’m not?” 

Oikawa can feel his lips trembling with words he’s not sure how to format into sentences. He knows he’s got no right to be feeling so emotional, as emotional as Iwaizumi right now, but still somehow he feels his insides ache with some kind of unraveling sensation. 

“I wasn’t planning on telling anyone,” he hisses out, intending more of a whisper but unfortunately achieving a darker, less neutral effect. “Yahaba thought you were some sort of industry spy, he was being paranoid because you were talking to Kimiko—”

“Don’t act like he wouldn’t have found out anyways,” Iwaizumi spits and suddenly his voice is strong again, hard rather than fragile with emotion. “Shit, I should _never_ have let you drag Kyoutani into this.”

At that Oikawa pauses, mind whirling through the idea that, all thing’s currently considered, Iwaizumi is still most concerned for his friend rather than himself. 

“The idea was for him _not_ to find out, remember?” Oikawa tries again, forcing his voice to level-out. He imagines Yahaba’s pale face as they’d been leaving, Kyoutani’s solid stance behind him. “I fucked up, I’m sorry. But I can tell you honestly that Yahaba isn’t petty enough to judge.”

“Of course not, he’s getting an all-expenses paid, first-class fucking as we speak,” Iwaizumi scoffs, voice bitter. 

Oikawa bristles, fingernails biting into his palms at his sides. Now is not the time to further this argument. He knows Iwaizumi is speaking in the heat of the moment, he doesn’t know Yahaba at all. He can only make assumptions based on the surface and so far what Iwaizumi has witnessed is not exactly the best first impression. 

It’s not like he can read people like Oikawa can—right? 

“Iwa-chan, I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t mean for things to happen like that,” Oikawa’s voice is low, like he’s trying to calm something wild with soft, slow movements. He’s got to play this right, he’s just not entirely certain what route to take. “I’m sorry I humiliated you.”

By the way Iwaizumi’s gaze flashes once before he’s turning, cutting himself off physically from Oikawa’s beseeching, that wasn’t the correct route. Now who was the one making assumptions? 

“It’s—it’s not that.” Iwaizumi’s voice has mellowed, but his words still have an edge to them, something Oikawa is painfully familiar with. “I’ve just never been in that type of position before. I don’t have experience with people or places like that,” he sighs. “I’m used to the scrutiny, but usually me and Kyoutani are equipped to handle it. I was out of my element and it caught me by surprise.”

“I—“ Oikawa’s voice cracks and he can’t seem to find anything else to say. Iwaizumi is so good at being real, there’s no mask there and now Oikawa feels so far away from familiarity it’s almost scary. “I’m so sorry,” he croaks out again. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t actually accept his apology and that cuts Oikawa deeper than anything. But he does shrug and say, “I guess things didn’t exactly go as planned for you either.” 

Sugawara’s words ring back through his mind, echoing and vibrating and causing his head to ache almost instantly. _Take care of yourself?_

He’s trying to. Really, he is. Oikawa’s eyes drift back to Iwaizumi, but whatever uncomfortable tension between them has apparently lifted, for now at least. 

For a moment he’d almost forgotten that, really, they don’t even know each other. 

Iwaizumi reaches up, flicking open a few top buttons on his shirt to reveal tanned collarbones and Oikawa doesn’t know if this is a punishment or not. Probably he’s just uncomfortable, not feeling himself in these new clothes, but despite their stunted fight he still feels a sliver of hope. 

“What were you and Kimiko talking about?” he wonders, trying for nonchalant. 

Iwaizumi’s lips cut into a smirk and that sliver starts to grow a bit more realistic. “Jealous?” he asks. 

Oikawa doesn’t allow himself to give anything away, but it’s difficult. “I didn’t like it.”

“We were just making small talk.” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and the gesture is so genuine that Oikawa finally feels as though he’s out of the woods (for now). “You know, what normal human beings do at fancy-ass garden parties. Unlike _you_ —”

“I didn’t like it,” Oikawa repeats giving Iwaizumi a patented smile, slick and pretty, as he unapologetically interrupts. 

“Noted.” Iwaizumi seems to waver for just a second before continuing.“But just so you’re aware—she’s not exactly my type.” 

At that Oikawa’s muscles relax fully, his lips spreading even wider than before. “Oh?” he says, all innocence. 

“Come on, let’s go to the gym or something. I’ve got to get out of these clothes.” Iwaizumi’s eyes flick around the room like he’s purposefully trying not to look at Oikawa. “And stop smiling like that it’s freaking me out.” 

“What?” Oikawa hums, cheeks round. “This is my normal smile.”

Iwaizumi’s own cheeks are definitely red, but Oikawa decides to assume it’s out of annoyance rather than anything else. “The fuck it is,” he growls, beginning to tear at his clothes once more. 

“ _Iwa-chan_ —” 

Oikawa’s cut off abruptly by a shirt thrown straight at his face and Iwaizumi’s triumphant (and so very pleasant) laughter. 

* * *

Iwaizumi doesn’t remember the last time his muscles have ached in such a way as this. Sure, his body’s ached before, recently actually, but this feeling is definitely different. There’s still a good bit of adrenaline coursing through his veins from slamming down Oikawa’s perfectly adjusted tosses and for a moment, if he shuts his eyes and mind, Iwaizumi can imagine that they’ve always been together like this—that life is _different_.

But then his eyes peel back open and he’s met with Oikawa’s penthouse bedroom, his worn leather pants laid forlornly over a plush armchair, and things are once again how they’re meant to be. 

He wonders briefly how Kyoutani’s doing. 

“Hey,” Oikawa’s voice sounds behind him, breaking through the fog slowly swirling in the back of his head. He turns to find Oikawa standing in the doorway, face flushed with warmth and body still damp from his recent shower. The towel wrapped around his waist is nearly as flimsy as Iwaizumi’s own. 

Once he’s gotten Iwaizumi’s attention, Oikawa walks towards the bed, no amount of modesty hindering the sway of his hips as he goes. Iwaizumi thinks, objectively, Oikawa is probably the most attractive client he’s ever taken on—and that is truly proving to be a big fucking mistake on his part. 

He’ll have to remind himself later, once this disorienting week is over, never to approach someone of this caliber again. 

“Are you going to just stand there?” Oikawa’s already in bed, underneath the covers and looking somehow childish and small with the way he’s pulled the sheet up to his neck. The towel lays forgotten on the floor beside him.

They’d talked about this at the gym—how tired Oikawa was and how a full night’s sleep would do them both good. At first Iwaizumi thought maybe it was something _else_ Oikawa was hedging for. But seeing him now, eyes heavy and pillows fluffed, he realizes maybe a sleeping companion really was all Oikawa wanted. 

Iwaizumi swallows down his swirling thoughts and moves to join Oikawa, the sheets soft against his skin. Suddenly he’s feeling quite exhausted himself. 

He works his body into a comfortable position on his side, ignoring the fact that they are two grown men fully naked in bed together with no apparent intentions of having sex. Beside him Oikawa lays back, eyes staring up at the ceiling; he squints a bit, probably due to the lack of contacts or glasses at the moment. The way his nose scrunches with the movement is strangely endearing. 

“Something wrong?” Iwaizumi wonders softly, trying to keep the atmosphere between them comfortable. Earlier things had gotten too out-of-hand—he’d nearly walked out. Iwaizumi couldn’t let something like that happen again, neither of them needed this contract between them to turn into something so toxic or stressful; after all, that would go against the intended nature of Iwaizumi’s company, wouldn’t it? 

Oikawa acknowledges his question, but doesn’t bother to return his gaze. “Just thinking about work.”

Iwaizumi hesitates for a moment, his mind spitting out come-on’s and dirty words that have been ingrained responses for a long time now. But for some reason he ignores them completely in favor of something else. 

“How did you get into this sort of business anyway?” he murmurs, genuine curiosity worming its way through. 

If Oikawa’s surprised by the question he doesn’t show it, though he does seem uncertain how to answer. Iwaizumi think’s he’ known him long enough at this point to see when the wheels begin to turn in that analytical brain of his. 

Finally Oikawa turns to face him, tilting onto an elbow to give Iwaizumi a look that might be dead-pan on anyone else. “A lot of hard work and determination.”

“Nice canned answer,” Iwaizumi shoots back, unable to help himself. “Now what’s the real story?”

“Story?” Oikawa toys with the top sheet draped over his chest. “Really, there’s nothing to tell, Iwa-chan—”

“If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine,” Iwaizumi counters, nearly choking on the last syllables as his brain catches up with his mouth. He’s not sure what the hell he’s thinking, but there’s no taking back an offer like that now. 

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind Iwaizumi thinks he wants to know the answer so badly that he’s willing to give Oikawa some of his own vulnerabilities just for a chance at some honesty shared between them. 

It’s stupid of him, an idiotic assumption and certainly not going to work— 

But then Oikawa surprises him yet again by turning further towards him, features supple in the glow of lamplight and his mask _completely_ withdrawn for perhaps the first time since their contract began. 

“I didn’t go to university just for business. I was on athletic scholarship until my third year.” Oikawa gestures nonchalantly towards his knee. “I’m sure you can guess what happened.”

Iwaizumi swallows the thick, unbidden emotion that rises in his throat. “Would you have gone pro?” 

“Maybe.” Oikawa shrugs as best he can against the plush mattress. “That’s what my father wanted at least.”

The sheet gives way a little, sliding down Oikawa’s smooth skin to reveal a darknipple and soft muscles. Everything about him is soft in this moment and Iwaizumi wonders if Oikawa sees him in the same light or if he’s just as hard and jagged as usual. 

“And then—after’s when you just casually decided to become some sort of millionaire, business mogul?” Iwaizumi can’t help his unattractive snort at the ridiculousness of the statement, the ridiculousness of this situation he’s currently found himself in. 

Oikawa smirks, but there’s something underneath the amusement that’s sour and painful looking. Iwaizumi hates it. “I told you—it took hard work and determination.”

Iwaizumi pauses, lets them breathe together for a few beats before pressing further. “And your father?” he asks slowly. 

“He hated me for it. Actually, truly hated me for it.” Oikawa’s round eyes turn hollow, but it’s not out of sadness or regret, but something else entirely. “His company was the third one I ever took over.” 

Knowing Oikawa, Iwaizumi really shouldn’t be surprised, but the news does manage to brighten his expression. “So—in a way, it _is_ daddy’s money.”

Oikawa tries valiantly to hide a chuckle behind annoyance. “Really, Iwa-chan—”

Iwaizumi follows the delicate trail of pink that rises along the surface of Oikawa’s cheekbones. There are two soft freckles just at the edge of his jaw that Iwaizumi’s never noticed before now. 

“Earlier, at the party, you called me Hajime,” he says and he’s never felt himself more open and vulnerable than in this very moment. 

“Oh.” In their close proximity Oikawa’s eyes nearly cross at the realization and it’s so cute Iwaizumi kind of hates him for it. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You should really lose the nickname habit,” Iwaizumi says, forcing gruffness. “It’s immature.”

But Oikawa’s watching him now and somehow Iwaizumi suspects he’s managed to inch just a bit closer. “Hm, I think maybe you just prefer being called by your given name.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” Iwaizumi bristles, realizing the door he’s now inadvertently opened. “You’re a successful businessman, aren’t you? Why do you only _sometimes_ act like it?” 

“I’ll try my best for _you_ , Hajime.” 

The way Oikawa says it is teasing, but still something about hearing the way the syllables roll off Oikawa’s tongue _does_ something to Iwaizumi. Something he’s evidently not prepared for. Something—

“It’s your turn,” Oikawa reminds gently and Iwaizumi realizes he’s not sure how long he’d gone without responding.

“My turn?” Iwaizumi parrots dumbly. 

“Yes,” Oikawa actually pouts and Iwaizumi’s brain clicks firmly back into place. “You promised.” 

_Right_. Well it hadn’t been a promise exactly, but Iwaizumi’s not one to go back on his word. 

“There’s not much to tell,” he says, meeting Oikawa’s genuinely curious expression with a sigh. “My mom had a laundry list of debts, mostly gambling. When she died they eventually fell to me.” 

He thinks maybe he can stop there, those rambling sentences of explanation are usually enough for people to put two and two together. Still Oikawa studies him closely, not moving a muscle like he’s afraid if he does or says anything Iwaizumi will close off again. There’s something about this moment between them, safe and comfortable; part of Iwaizumi doesn’t want to disturb it either. 

“I had other jobs at first. Fast food, parking cars, bike messenger—but those jobs just didn’t pay out fast or big enough.” Iwaizumi pauses just long enough to muster up a playful grin. “Besides, I’m pretty good at what I do.” 

He observes the way Oikawa flounders beneath his practiced smile, but the man doesn’t succumb, instead fitting Iwaizumi with a truly believable smile of his own, even if it is a bit wobbly.

“That’s—I’m sorry,” he says and his voice is low, but Iwaizumi’s never heard him so genuine before. 

“Don’t be.” Iwaizumi shrugs. “The debts are nearly paid up. But it _is_ good money, so I’m not looking for any sympathy.” 

“But, isn’t it a bit— _unpredictable?_ ” Oikawa says, hesitating enough for Iwaizumi to understand that he was trying to find just the right word to cover for what he truly wanted to ask. 

“There’s this bar, not far from where I picked you up actually,” he explains easily. “I’ve got friends there and we watch each other’s backs.”

“Like Kyoutani?”

“Like Kyoutani, yeah.” 

Oikawa’s brows furrow just enough to wrinkle his pretty expression. “It’s not a brothel, is it?”

“Nah, nothing like that.” Iwaizumi laughs and he feels amusement run down his tired limbs as he catches Oikawa’s gaze. “Though they run some other illicit activities there.”

He thinks that should be enough to get off the topic, but instead of intimidation in Oikawa’s features he finds something akin to morbid curiosity. 

“You should take me sometime,” Oikawa says and it’s not a question. 

Iwaizumi’s lungs contract with a deep breath and he laughs again feeling suddenly lighter than he has in a long while, all things considered. “Doesn’t really seem like your kinda place, Spoiled-kawa.” 

Oikawa burrows into his pillow, glaring up at Iwaizumi falsely. “Your choice in nicknames is sorely lacking.”

“Sorry, I’ll go back to Crappy-kawa then.”

“ _Mean_ , Hajime.”

Through his amusement Iwaizumi doesn’t manage to catch himself before his face starts to heat over with an obvious flush. He tries to glower, but it doesn’t exactly have the same effect as Oikawa continues to inch towards him, a delighted grin widening his lips. 

“Hajime, Hajime, Hajime,” he repeats in that infuriating, throaty voice of his. 

It’s so childish and yet—

“Shut up already!” Iwaizumi growls, two seconds before pressing a pillow over Oikawa’s annoying face. 

* * *

On Thursday, Oikawa finds himself working all day.

This is both positive and negative in that he and Yahaba are getting things done, valuable things, money-making things. But also—he sort of, strangely, misses Iwaizumi. 

When Yahaba had attempted to apologize again for his behavior at the garden-party Oikawa had diverted the conversation to Kyoutani and thus shut his colleague up on the entire matter for the rest of the day.

He wonders, vaguely, if he’ll ever get details out of Yahaba or if maybe he doesn’t want to know at all. 

Either way, by noon they’re sharing take-out in an empty conference room, things generally back to normal.

Later when he gets home, or rather back to the penthouse, Iwaizumi’s waiting for him. He’s sprawled across the couch, legs encased in familiar leather, and earrings threaded back through his ears. He gives Oikawa a cool glance over the copy of today’s newspaper, abs flexing with silent laughter where his tight shirt reveals his midriff. 

For once the amusement at his own expense seems warranted. Oikawa’s sure his expression at the moment is priceless. 

“Are you leaving?” he asks, the question the first thing his brain can piece together with the information provided in front of him.

Iwaizumi tosses the paper down on the coffee table and sits up. That smirk he’s wearing is almost as unfair as the way his arms look—and why had Oikawa ever thought it a good idea to put this man into a stuffy dress shirt? 

“No,” Iwaizumi says, tone almost like he’s explaining something to a small child. 

Oikawa thinks he should be offended, but instead he just cocks his head in curiosity. “Then—” He gestures vaguely to Iwaizumi’s choice in attire. 

“You said you wanted to visit my usual stomping ground,” Iwaizumi answers easily, clearly gauging Oikawa’s reaction. “I’m taking you to the bar.” 

“The bar?” Oikawa scoffs, but it comes out rather more nervous than he’d have liked. “Doesn’t it have a name?”

Iwaizumi just gives him a mischievous look and for once Oikawa thinks maybe he should have stayed at work with Yahaba. 

* * *

 Low and behold, the sign Oikawa stares up at half an hour later literally reads ‘The Bar’ in pretty cursive neon. The aqua light glows warm against Iwaizumi’s skin when he pushes through the front entrance, holding it open a bit for Oikawa to follow. 

They’d taken a taxi at Iwaizumi’s insistence and Oikawa is sure the rental car company will be glad for his prudence. The area isn’t quite as threatening as Oikawa had imagined, but still it’s not a neighborhood to just leave an Aston Martin lying around in. 

As they enter Oikawa feels almost as though he’s been transported to another realm. The entire place is cloaked in dim lighting, purples and blues pouring out from half-hidden bulbs over the bar and tables currently occupied by all manner of people. There’s music purring through the speakers, a background sound of psychedelic rock that Oikawa hasn’t been acquainted with in a long while.

Earlier Iwaizumi had commandeered his silk tie, leaving it on the penthouse floor to Oikawa’s great displeasure. But now he’s glad he did, in fact he wishes Iwaizumi had told him to change further as he’s suddenly feeling considerably overdressed still in his suit. 

Beside him Iwaizumi’s shoulders seem to nearly melt free of a tension Oikawa hadn’t noticed until just now. His eyes scan the place, the people, and there’s a telling quirk to his lips that looks something close to a genuine smile. 

For the majority of their time together Oikawa has held the upper-hand, he realizes. But now, here in this unfamiliar place, Iwaizumi can easily turn the tables.

Oikawa hesitates just enough for Iwaizumi’s hand to find its way to the small of his back, a comforting gesture that surprises Oikawa enough to get him to walk forward without much more second thought. 

“I’ll buy you a drink,” Iwaizumi murmurs close to his ear, a scant amount of scruff scratching at Oikawa’s own clean shaven jaw. 

Oikawa makes a protesting noise in the back of his throat, but Iwaizumi’s already navigating their way towards the expansive bar, black and polished to shine even in the place’s smoky atmosphere. It’s really not as bad as Oikawa’s pretentious side had been expecting, but he doesn’t really mind that Iwaizumi’s decided to keep his hand firmly in place, smoothing against the fabric of his jacket. 

As they approach, Oikawa feels Iwaizumi falter momentarily and he wonders why only until he’s hit with the hair-raising sensation of being thoroughly examined. 

Behind the bar twin sets of heavy-lidded eyes study him unapologetically from head-to-toe. Both men are tall, maybe a few centimeters over Oikawa’s own stature, and sporting layers of tight clothing and twin smirks that nearly cut straight through him. 

The taller of the two is dark, hair curling over thick brows and there’s definitely a glinting silver ring through his septum. The other is slightly less broad, hair an unnatural shade of pink and all manner of jewelry lining his ears, glowing beneath the dim bluish lights overhead. Freckles dot his milky skin, marred only by some ink Oikawa can see peeking out from the collar of his shirt. 

“Hey there,” the taller says, teeth glinting through his smile. He’s still staring at Oikawa, but he tilts his head towards Iwaizumi lazily. “Who’s the suit, ace?” 

“Oh, I know,” the other joins in before either of them can even think to answer. He chuckles, deep and pleased, over the thrum of base surrounding them. “That’s the sugar daddy, right?” 

Suddenly Oikawa is beginning to regret abandoning Iwaizumi with the wives in Shinjuku. 

Oikawa licks his lips, trying to find the best comeback in his arsenal, to hell with karma anyways, but surprisingly it’s Iwaizumi that beats him to it. 

“Oikawa’s hardly daddy material,” he scoffs, sounding far too serious for a statement such as that. 

Oikawa nearly chokes as the words register and he can’t quite figure out if he feels relieved or offended or—

Across the bar, those appraising eyes finally seem to lighten a bit as both men break into laughter at Oikawa’s expense. In turn, Oikawa glares but then realizes really he should be taking this up with the culprit himself. 

But when he turns to face Iwaizumi, feeling something like petulance pushing at his tongue, the man just fits him with an empty, unimpressed look.

“This is Hanamaki and that’s Matsukawa,” Iwaizumi gestures to the men respectively. “Don’t mind a single word from them.”

“Hey now, ace, let him form his own opinions,” the taller one, Matsukawa, drawls. 

Oikawa thinks perhaps Iwaizumi had known exactly how this would play out from the very beginning. He remembers how very much out of his element he is, so as Oikawa turns he attempts to muster up enough falsity to play along as best he can. 

“Pleasure,” he grits out around a smile. 

The pink haired one, Hanamaki, leans heavily against the bar and right into Oikawa’s personal space without missing a beat. “The pleasure’s definitely ours,” he says, voice deep and slick. 

Oikawa, startled mostly by Hanamaki’s sudden proximity, draws backwards and consequently into Iwaizumi’s solid shoulder.

“Loosen up, would you?” Iwaizumi whispers against the shell of his ear and even though the words are meant to be chastising, the tone with which they are said is calm and almost concerned. “They’re harmless.”

Oikawa feels a little embarrassed and he’s not sure why. He’s a people person after all, charismatic and able to wrap nearly anyone around his finger when he really wants to. So why in the world is he feeling so intimidated right now? 

“Don’t worry we don’t bite, sweetie,” Hanamaki says through his grin and finally, something hollow and brittle inside of Oikawa splinters.

He’s the one to lean forward this time feeling the smooth bar beneath his palms as he runs his eyes over Hanamaki’s features. “Oh, but I do, _sweetie,”_ he replies, voice dripping with sugary venom. 

Hanamaki quirks a brow, appreciative, but it’s Matsukawa who speaks first. “Figure out how to keep this one around Iwaizumi. He’s fun.” 

“And definitely your type,” Hanamaki adds, shifting to wait for Iwaizumi’s reaction. 

“I don’t have a type,” Iwaizumi deadpans, but Oikawa can make out a faint redness crawling up his neck.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Matsukawa hums.

Before Iwaizumi can vault over the bar, Hanamaki grabs a plain white napkin and places it in front of Oikawa with an unnecessary flourish. “So what can I get you, Oikawa- _san_.”

Oikawa’s eyes roll before he can stop them, but apparently that only seems to endear him more to Hanamaki as the bartender’s smirk deepens. 

“Something top-shelf.”

“Atta boy.” 

It’s ironic that the bills Iwaizumi slides across the bar-top, in a sense, are just short of still being Oikawa’s own. But the heavy-bottomed glass of amber liquid he receives makes up for the fact, even if it is a bit stronger than he’d normally order on a Thursday night. 

It takes a bit of coaxing, but they decide to sit at the bar, off to the side and private enough that Oikawa feels almost like he’s on a date if it weren’t for the sense of reality lingering at the edge of his consciousness. Matsukawa and Hanamaki prove to be bountiful resources on all things Iwaizumi, regaling Oikawa with a rolodex of stories and blackmail material. But nothing too personal comes up and Oikawa bets, most likely, that even though the two bartenders seem to be very close with Iwaizumi, they probably know just about as much as Oikawa does about him personally. 

When Kyoutani gets brought up, it’s to Oikawa’s great horror that he’d set Yahaba up with someone so dangerous.

“He’s a puppy,” Matsukawa says with a roll of his dark eyes.

“It’s totally all for show,” Hanamaki agrees. “He’s got to keep up appearances on the streets and as a fighter, but really he’s a big softie.” 

Oikawa thinks he’s beginning to know the type. 

It takes a bit, but finally he’s starting to relax. Not just from being in such a foreign establishment, but relax from the entire week he’s had to endure so far. It’s been strange, his time in Tokyo, nothing he could have ever predicted. He thinks the next two days will probably go by quickly and at the beginning of the week that would have been the best feeling, but now he’s not so sure. 

For the first time that night Oikawa’s mind picks at the reasoning for Iwaizumi bringing him here—to a place so familiar to him, his own place, nearly an entirely different world. Is Oikawa intruding? But then, if that were the case Iwaizumi would have never made the offer, right? 

It’s an odd thing, he thinks, for two people in their situation to be sitting at a bar together like this, drinking and laughing like they’re old friends. So close together and yet so far apart. 

Laughter rumbles from Iwaizumi’s throat, a sound he can’t quite seem to get a hold of, and it’s such a pleasant noise that Oikawa would be okay with him never quite getting a hold of it, ever. 

Iwaizumi’s gaze flicks to the side to catch him watching, but Oikawa doesn’t bother to look away. Those green eyes glow beneath deep violet light, somewhat glazed, and Oikawa realizes this is the first time he’s seen Iwaizumi drink, the first time he’s seen him with any bit of vulnerability. 

Maybe last night he’d seen something, but he can’t be sure. 

Iwaizumi’s lingering gaze has turned into more of a stare and Oikawa doesn’t mean to break it, but when he feels a hand press against his wrist he startles a bit, whatever strange spell between them shattering with the movement. 

But it’s Iwaizumi’s voice low in his ear that proves to startle him even more.

“Come with me,” Iwaizumi says, gently tugging at his wrist. And maybe it’s a bad idea, but Oikawa follows after him anyways. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer to post than intended. I was pretty discouraged about this story for a while and it took some time to convince myself that, from the beginning, I've been writing this fic for myself and in the end that's what counts the most. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with it if you're still around and reading, I appreciate you! 
> 
> Next time: What happens at The Bar, stays at The Bar. 
> 
> ~~(Also kyouhaba side-story is happening I swear, but I had to get this chapter out first for continuity and spoilers sake.)~~
> 
> Kyouhaba side-story is [HERE!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14967149)  
> 


	7. baby i can take my time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Tell me something about yourself.”_   
>  _“What do you want to know?”_

Amazingly, for all he’s seen and done working the streets of Tokyo’s red light district, Iwaizumi can say for certain that he’s never done anything quite like _this_ before. 

Oikawa’s wrist is warm against his hand where he clutches it, tugging the other man behind him gently, but with an urgency that Iwaizumi himself is still trying to comprehend. The ideas swirling through his head are absurd, fucking indecent even. They’ve got a verbal contract, Oikawa’s paid literal money for him, and yet somehow _this_ is what’s giving him pause. 

Iwaizumi pushes against the bathroom door with little patience, more than familiar with the tiny rectangular room, but he never thought he’d be dragging someone in behind him. The lock flicks with a satisfying thunk and then they are alone.

When Iwaizumi finally turns to face Oikawa fully, he looks—actually a little pale. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says the name, but it sounds oddly heavy on his tongue. “Why are we in the bathroom?”

Iwaizumi thinks (stupidly) that he really wishes Oikawa would go back to using his given name. He glances to the side, to the mirror with the long, diagonal crack in its frame and the pedestal sink that gives barely enough room for hand washing, much less any illicit activities. 

Suddenly he’s feeling a little bit pale himself. 

“Sorry, uh—” Iwaizumi stumbles, his mouth sticky. What had been his initial motivation again? The slight buzz of liquor from before is dissolving fast with each passing second that Oikawa stares at him, waiting for an explanation. 

Really, he shouldn’t be feeling so awkward. Certainly he’d done worse things than this, right? Plus, this bathroom wasn’t so bad; Hanamaki had always been a bit of a clean-freak. 

Licking his lips, tasting faintly of whiskey, he tries again. “I just thought—”

Before he can get another word out a set of strong hands pull at his shoulders, spinning him until his back pushes into the locked door now behind him. Oikawa’s eyes are a bit rounder than usual, not quite glassy enough for him to truly be intoxicated, but there’s something there—some lack of caution that Iwaizumi finds startling. 

“Is this your way of trying to seduce me?” Oikawa says and the words swirl, his smile bewitching, but Iwaizumi can see the thin cracks, the glow of uncertainty hidden underneath.

Iwaizumi blinks, staring, and all of a sudden that tremor of action from before returns full force. His teeth grit together in a grin and with little warning he flips Oikawa easily, pressing and caging him against the door. 

“I thought I _already_ seduced you,” he says, eyes open for Oikawa to see straight down into their depths. 

Oikawa’s breath catches and the mask he’d been trying to weave unravels enough for Iwaizumi to feel in control once again. 

When Iwaizumi runs his hands over Oikawa’s hips he thinks probably they shouldn’t do this here, like a couple of horny teenagers who can’t control themselves until they sneak back in their bedroom window. But Oikawa doesn’t argue and when Iwaizumi moves to his belt, to the button of his slacks, to the zipper, all he does is clench his fists in anticipation against the door. 

So Iwaizumi keeps going, pushing into his pants and tugging his briefs down below his balls to free his cock, already slick and a little red. When he swipes his thumb through the shiny pre-cum Oikawa groans in this gorgeous, intriguing way. It’s the same gorgeous, intriguing way he does almost everything, and if that realization doesn’t make Iwaizumi’s steady, logical composure spiral he doesn’t know what will. 

Gritting his jaw against the thought, Iwaizumi presses into the slit of Oikawa’s cock before gathering what lubrication is available to him in order to pump his full palm against the hot, hard flesh. Oikawa’s long neck arches backwards, head bumping against the door and baring that alluring swath of smooth skin. 

“ _Hajime_.” His name sounds obscene through Oikawa’s throaty, breathless voice and Iwaizumi flinches in his ministrations, fingers clenching around Oikawa’s shaft unintentionally. 

Somehow this is different than when he’d jerked Oikawa off in the gym. Different _how_ , he’s not quite yet sure.

The friction is sticky and warm and the flush rising up Oikawa’s neck, blooming across his cheeks, is pretty enough that Iwaizumi has the urge to follow it with his mouth all the way to Oikawa’s plush, parted lips. 

Iwaizumi’s errant desire is shaken away only when a pair of shaking hands push up against the hem of his shirt. He crooks his neck to follow Oikawa’s fingers as they tangle in the fabric, rucking it up to run against the firm panes of his skin, cool against Iwaizumi’s radiating heat. 

“Oikawa, you don’t—” he starts to argue, but Oikawa’s eyes flash dark and hungry and Iwaizumi bites down over his lip when those teasing fingers move to the button of his jeans. 

In some meager retaliation, Iwaizumi swipes roughly over the head of Oikawa’s cock, ripping a shudder from him even if it doesn’t seem to impede on his progress of making his way into Iwaizumi’s pants. Oikawa’s forehead bends forward to rest heavily against Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his panting breaths loud and intoxicating in his ear. 

But it’s Iwaizumi that pants out the next breath, a heavy gasp, when Oikawa finally manages to dip into his briefs to find Iwaizumi’s quickly swelling erection. A soft, pleased noise escapes Oikawa’s throat as he tugs Iwaizumi easily to full hardness. His head tilts enough to mouth at the skin of Iwaizumi’s neck and it’s possibly the closest they’ve gotten to actually kissing and it makes Iwaizumi shiver and panic simultaneously. 

He twists his wrist, dragging against Oikawa a bit too forcefully, but it manages to dislodge Oikawa from his neck as he pulls back with a hiss to meet Iwaizumi’s gaze again, his own eyes hazy and it’s not just from the alcohol. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa says again, though this time it sounds more like a plea than anything. Iwaizumi’s hips twitch up in Oikawa’s fist, pushing him evening further against the door. 

When Iwaizumi releases him Oikawa whines immediately at the loss, but when he moves to uncurl those long, skilled fingers from his own cock, Oikawa’s features light up with needy expectation. 

Probably unnecessarily, Iwaizumi brings his right palm up to his mouth to lick a thick, wet stripe across it before wrapping it around both their lengths and trapping Oikawa’s hip with his free hand. Those glazed eyes watch him the entire way, something curious lingering beneath hunger until Iwaizumi starts to pump them together and Oikawa’s lids fall heavily at the sensation. 

Iwaizumi leans into it, trying his best to control his own hips from thrusting too forceful against Oikawa, but it’s proving difficult. He noses into Oikawa’s neck, placing a single kiss against the fluttering pulse that beats against his lips, but nothing more. 

The noise Oikawa makes when he twists a thumb up to gather their swirling pre-cum is obscene and loud enough that Iwaizumi is thankful for the bar’s bass-thumping sound-system if nothing else. 

Oikawa is letting loose, just like Iwaizumi had told him to. And—it’s so, so _fucking_ _good_. 

In their time together so far, he hasn’t heard Oikawa let go like this, hasn’t heard him gasp so breathlessly or slur nonsense words into the thick air between them like he is now. Iwaizumi’s cock twitches where it rubs against Oikawa’s own and he realizes that he’s not sure the last time he’s felt like this either. 

Oikawa is the one to spill first, his cum warm and sticky over Iwaizumi’s fist and only making the slide smoother and more intoxicating for him. It only takes a single, overstimulated whimper from Oikawa for Iwaizumi to fall as well, shivering as he milks them both through the last dregs of orgasm. 

Iwaizumi tries to come back down from the high as fast as he can, but with Oikawa’s warm body and pleased little breaths and sounds enveloping him, infiltrating his pleasure-addled mind, it’s not an easy feat. 

When Iwaizumi finally manages to pull away, biting back any embarrassment at having to tear himself away from Oikawa’s neck, he finds Oikawa watching him closely, hair a little mussed and sweat-damp at his temples. Iwaizumi imagines he doesn’t look much different. 

There’s a moment, albeit brief, where Oikawa’s mouth quivers as though he is going to say something, but instead he just reaches forward to twist at a crooked ring in the cartilage of Iwaizumi’s ear. 

It was just a couple of orgasms, nothing affectionate or sentimental. Just—business as usual. 

Iwaizumi washes his hands in the sink and Oikawa adjusts his clothes and primps his hair in the mirror. 

“We’ll probably never hear the end of it,” Iwaizumi grunts, imagining Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s leers across the bar already. 

Oikawa hums and when he meets Iwaizumi’s eyes in the mirror, his expression is maybe a little teasing, but mostly resigned. “Is that really anything new for you, Iwa-chan?”

On the surface level Iwaizumi should agree with him. But, Iwaizumi has a feeling that Oikawa doesn’t really understand the gravity in his words because, really, this time it is new and he has no fucking clue how to deal with it. 

* * *

On Friday morning Oikawa wakes slowly.

Usually, at least back in Sendai, Oikawa does not sleep until his body deems it acceptable to wake up. He’s always on a tight schedule, alarms set and double checked, sometimes not even needed if sleep evades him entirely. But the past few days have proved different. Certainly _very_ different. 

On the nightstand his phone glows with several missed calls and messages, mostly from Yahaba or other numbers he recognizes from the office, but also a missed call from one Sugawara Koushi. It’s not unheard of, in fact Refreshing-kun’s name is even saved in his phone, but it still manages to make Oikawa’s stomach lurch and his mind clear enough for reality to settle back in. 

Right. Logically Sugawara’s call would have been in regards to Ushijima, a business call between Karasuno and Seijou. But still, Oikawa can remember his concerned face earlier that week and Iwaizumi’s calming hand on his arm. 

The thought forces Oikawa’s eyes to the side, seeking out that familiar, firm back next to him, but finds the sheets pushed away and the bed empty. 

His memories of last night are not as hazy as they might aught to be considering the strength of drinks he’d been served, though they do hold a certain dreamlike quality, nebulous and extrasensory. Makki and Mattsun, as he’d dubbed the new acquaintances, had been charming and amusing; a fresh breath compared to some of the stuffy businesspeople Oikawa commonly associates with. But it is the image of Iwaizumi, eyes dark with something undecipherable, hunger but not so simple, that clings in Oikawa’s brain like sticky white rice. 

He blinks, the ceiling coming into fuzzy relief above him, and his fingers fumble for the glasses perched on the nightstand. 

There’s faint sounds and movement in the kitchenette when Oikawa enters the hall and his shoulders relax, tension he hadn’t noticed before flowing out of his muscles when he realizes that Iwaizumi is still there in his suite, if not still in his bed. 

When Oikawa turns the corner he does so with quiet feet, padding over the hardwood to find Iwaizumi hovering over the small cooktop, chopsticks in hand. He is shirtless which is, if not the first, the second thing Oikawa notices, stopping short to admire the smooth planes of Iwaizumi’s muscular back. 

The man hasn’t noticed him yet and Oikawa uses that to his advantage, ogling a little but also watching the way Iwaizumi moves in such a calm, relaxed way, expertly rolling tamagoyaki and adding another pour of eggs into the sizzling, rectangular pan. 

It’s fascinating to Oikawa, for some ungraspable reason. He hasn’t had anyone cook for him like this since he was in high school, sitting in his mother’s kitchen and plying her with stories of volleyball and cute fangirls and his nephew’s new, budding obsession with all things outer-space. 

At least, he assumes Iwaizumi is cooking for him. It could simply be—

“Are you just going to stand there?” Iwaizumi murmurs, nearly making Oikawa flinch. He turns just slightly over his shoulder to regard Oikawa with a raised brow. 

Oikawa’s eyes dip a little, trying to feign disinterest, but they in turn fall on the backside of his very own sweatpants and he thinks probably he should have ordered some pajamas along with Iwaizumi’s wardrobe. At least the week is almost over—at least—

Swallowing, Oikawa looks back up, trying for cheerful. “Good morning, Iwa-chan.”

“Good morning, Crappy-kawa,” Iwaizumi answers back, no heat behind the terrible nickname, and turns back to his tamagoyaki. 

Oikawa continues to watch him, taking in the bit longer stubble on Iwaizumi’s jaw and remembering how it felt rubbing against the sensitive skin of his neck last night, a contradiction to the surprising softness of Iwaizumi’s lips. 

When all the eggs are used up Iwaizumi slides the rolled omelet onto a plate and Oikawa takes a seat at the suite’s too-big dining table, still within range to study Iwaizumi as he works. 

Oikawa runs his tongue over the back of his teeth, mouth a little dry. He thinks probably he shouldn’t ruin the soft domestic mood, but he opens his mouth anyways. “Tell me something about yourself,” he says, as quiet as he can while still ensuring Iwaizumi can hear him across the kitchen. 

The only hint of reaction Oikawa gets is the minute tensing of Iwaizumi’s shoulders, but he doesn’t turn, just grabs a knife from the drawer by the sink that Oikawa’s never even thought about opening. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” Oikawa taps a couple of fingers against the edge of his chair, expelling whatever weird, nervous energy that’s just cropped up. “It doesn’t have to be something big, it can be trivial. Like your favorite color.” 

“My favorite color.” This time, Iwaizumi turns around fully, giving Oikawa an unfair view without even realizing it. “What’s gotten into you, you look like you’re still half asleep.”

Oikawa blinks languidly, trying to play into Iwaizumi’s assumption about whatever dreamy look he’s adopted since watching Iwaizumi make himself at home in his temporary kitchen. 

The aroma of dashi and miso fills his nose, warm and inviting and not anything at all like the bland meals or stale coffee he’s used to from any of his past business trips. He thinks he remembers there being a bodega down the street and he imagines Iwaizumi stalking through the lobby just to get Oikawa breakfast. He could have called for room service, Oikawa wouldn’t have batted an eye at any extra charges on the bill. But instead here Iwaizumi is, in his kitchen, cooking. 

For Oikawa. 

“Green,” Iwaizumi says, cutting through his thoughts and Oikawa just stares at him, head tilting.

Iwaizumi frowns. “You just asked me my favorite color,” he explains with a snort. He turns back to the stove with a shrug of broad shoulders. “You really must still be asleep.” 

He pours them bowls of miso soup and coffee from the tiny little hotel pot and carries over a plate of perfectly cut tamagoyaki, the spirals of egg and parsley and daikon pleasing to the eye. 

When Oikawa takes the first bite though, he learns that the food is not only pleasing to look at, but flavorful and just right against his palate. He hums in delight and catches Iwaizumi’s eye pointedly. 

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Oikawa asks, pinching the steamy edge of his bowl between long fingers. 

“My grandmother taught me when I was a kid,” Iwaizumi answers easily, no hesitation. It’s quite possibly the most personal thing Oikawa has heard him say, barring the confessions they’d shared in bed a couple of nights ago. 

“Hmm,” Oikawa nods, pleased. “Well, Iwa-chan is nice to make me breakfast.”

Iwaizumi stiffens in his seat across from Oikawa, eyeing him narrowly before turning away to stare at the grain of the table. “It’s habit,” he grunts, shaking his head. “I usually do the cooking for me and Kyoutani. Not everyone has the luxury of room service and five star business dinners, you know.”

Oikawa can’t help the smile that puffs his cheeks as Iwaizumi tries valiantly to act like never in a million years would he purposefully cook for someone like Oikawa Tooru. It’s amusing and endearing and if Oikawa didn’t already, he was really starting to feel attracted to Iwaizumi’s personal brand of charm (the _real_ charm, not whatever airs he puts on towards his clients). 

Licking broth from his lips, Oikawa leans forward into Iwaizumi’s space. He’d chosen the seat directly across from Oikawa, instead of any of the five other choices available to him.“Let’s do something fun today,” he suggests, grin widening. 

Iwaizumi looks at him questioningly, trying for a sour look but not quite able to make it. “Don’t you have to work?”

Oikawa waves a flippant hand around over the table, narrowly missing his own coffee cup in the process. “At this point it’s mostly just waiting around for Ushiwaka to make a decision,” he explains and it’s true, but probably only a half-truth. “Anything else Yahaba can handle on his own.” 

Iwaizumi still doesn’t look convinced, maybe at the fact that Oikawa is still in Tokyo on _business_ or maybe at whatever fun activity Oikawa has in mind. Which, he doesn’t have anything in mind exactly— 

“What should we do?” Oikawa asks rather than waiting for Iwaizumi’s response (read: chastising). “What would _you_ want to do, Iwa-chan?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Iwaizumi grunts, staring down into his soup. “Whatever you want, dear.” 

Oikawa’s lower lip pouts a little at the lack of enthusiasm. “What do you normally do in your spare time?” he presses.

“I dunno.” Iwaizumi shrugs, but at least he looks back up to meet Oikawa’s gaze again. “Sometimes I pick up an extra shift at The Bar. Mostly I just sleep during the day, you know considering—” he swallows down the rest of the explanation and Oikawa is thankful for that, his implication reminder enough of their situation without having to spell it all out again. 

Oikawa’s pout retracts and he gnaws absently at this lip instead. He watches Iwaizumi chewing slowly, thinking. Orange mid-morning sunlight crawls slowly across the floor from the half-curtained balcony doors, a smattering of clouds only briefly obscuring the suite in bluish shadow. 

It’s a Friday in Japan’s largest, most bustling city, so surely there’s got to be _something_ —Oikawa’s fingers snap together, the noise startlingly loud in the comfortable silence they’d garnered between them and he grabs at his phone, tapping harshly at the screen. 

Iwaizumi stares at him, watchful, nearly suspicious. “What?”

Oikawa glances up through his lashes, trying for something sly, maybe roguish, but that doesn’t seem to work on Iwaizumi, the man’s own features staying considerably blank. 

“It’s a surprise,” Oikawa says anyways and continues to scroll through his phone, a sudden feeling of anticipation bubbling in his stomach. One he’s not sure he’s felt in a long, long time. 

* * *

Iwaizumi isn’t sure the last time he’d been accosted with so many nostalgic sights and sounds and smells. The gymnasium echoes with the squeak of shoes against the court, the slam of jump serves and spikes, the buzzers and cheering and general warm echo of chaos before a match begins.

Oikawa comes to stand next to him, leaning against the railing, his eyes sharp as he scans the center court with appreciation, but also something softer, maybe even a bit vulnerable. 

Iwaizumi’s fingers twitch with the memory of tender skin and swollen muscles beneath his palm, warmed by bathwater and his own gentle touch. 

The shrill sound of a whistle snaps through Iwaizumi’s mind and the memory dissolves; ripples against a skipping stone. 

“This way,” Oikawa says in his ear, tone curling with energy against his ear. He tugs Iwaizumi down the front row towards two empty seats at the aisle. 

He’s never been to a match in person like this before, at least not one he himself wasn’t playing in. Occasionally he manages to catch the national team on television, but that is few and far between. He wonders how Oikawa managed to get tickets on such short notice; it’s only V.Premier League, but still. 

Iwaizumi frowns, glancing back to Oikawa and wondering why such a thing is surprising to him at all.

They’re both dressed down for once, or at least Oikawa is dressed down. Iwaizumi himself still feels a bit out of character in non-skintight jeans and cotton shirt. Oikawa though—well, he looks _good_ like this, casual and relaxed even if his hair is still perfect and features as intimidatingly attractive as ever. 

Iwaizumi wonders, briefly and a bit nauseously, when he’d started to think in such a straightforward, non-abashed way. It’s fact, Oikawa’s looks, but still he won’t be admitting these things out loud to him anytime soon. 

“I’ve never seen the Blazers play in person before,” Oikawa says, not having noticed Iwaizumi’s attention and with a stupid amount of relief at that Iwaizumi snaps his gaze back towards the court, watching the navy jerseys of the Osaka team trimmed in bright yellow. 

“Do you go to a lot of games?” he asks, only half paying attention to his own question. Below, the players are lining up, FC Tokyo in their home jerseys of red and blue.

Oikawa seems to hesitate at that, thinking his answer over more thoroughly than such a simple question might have warranted. But maybe, Iwaizumi realizes, it’s not such a simple question at all.

“When I can,” Oikawa replies, finally. He tilts his head to the side to regard Iwaizumi in some sort of nonchalant manner, but Iwaizumi has since begun to see past Oikawa’s usual masks a little easier with each passing day. 

_I was on athletic scholarship until my third year. I’m sure you can guess what happened._

Iwaizumi wonders, irrationally curious, how long it had taken Oikawa to get over volleyball. Or if maybe, he hadn’t quite gotten over it at all. 

A buzzer sounds and Iwaizumi realizes he’d been staring again. He turns away, rubbing at his neck, at the heat he can feel growing there. This time, Oikawa had definitely noticed. 

After the first set begins and the Blazers take the lead, whatever small bit of tension that had arisen between them dissipates with the yelling crowd and Oikawa’s enthusiasm in pointing out all the little habits and techniques of each team’s starting players. 

Somewhere along the line Oikawa pulls his phone out, staring down at the screen with that little frown of his, lines furrowing his brow and Iwaizumi has half a mind to reach out and smooth them with the pad of his finger. 

“In trouble for playing hooky?” Iwaizumi asks once Oikawa’s re-pocketed his phone and one of FC Tokyo’s wing spikers manages a no-touch ace almost as powerful as the jump serves he’d seen in the hotel gym some nights ago. 

Oikawa grants him a smile, almost genuine. “Oh no, nothing like that,” he says and Iwaizumi doesn’t entirely believe him. “The _boss_ can’t get in trouble, right?”

Iwaizumi feels his eyes roll, but he can’t help but find amusement in Oikawa’s only partially confident tone. When he laughs it’s warm in his chest and beside him Oikawa practically glows at the sound. 

When the second set begins, a heavy hand finds it’s way to Iwaizumi’s thigh. It startles him just enough to flick his eyes down to find Oikawa’s hand there, running fingers in absent patterns over knee. Upon another cursory glance he thinks Oikawa doesn’t even realize what it is that he’s doing, the man’s eyes focussed keenly on the game below. 

Without warning, Iwaizumi feels entirely off-balance. Last night in the bathroom he’d felt off too, but that had been different. At least that had still been in the realm of his expertise, his _control_. This though—he’s not sure what _this_ is at all. 

It feels almost—a little bit like they’re on a d—

“Iwa-chan, let’s go for donburi after this,” Oikawa interrupts, unknowingly. “I’ve been craving it all week.” 

Somewhere in his peripheral Osaka wins the latest rally, whistles are blown, voices echo up to the lofty ceiling of the gymnasium. He watches Oikawa, the way his round eyes flick and follow the ball with expert precision. The same precision he gives the mountains of paperwork scattered over his desk, the potential clients he charms at dinners or rooftop garden parties. The same precision he regards Iwaizumi with late at night in that big bed in his penthouse suite. 

Iwaizumi licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Okay,” he agrees. “We can do whatever you want.” 

He means it, truly, but that’s not really what’s troubling him at all. 

* * *

As the sun starts to dip lower in the sky Iwaizumi indulges Oikawa in his requested doburi and later, much to Oikawa’s surprise, shares milk bread and mochi ice-cream without a single remark in regards to the cafe’s gaudy pastel decorations or the striped awning they sit beneath, bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee.

It’s actually— _nice_. 

Oikawa thinks about the first time he’d seen Iwaizumi, before he’d known him at all, and the way the two men standing on that street corner had filled him with something uncertain, something akin to fear. 

Something a little judgmental, even. 

Beside him, Iwaizumi snags the last bite of milk bread and if it had been anyone else Oikawa would probably be pouty and fussy just to cause annoyance. But, even if he does find enjoyment in annoying Iwaizumi, somehow he just can’t bring himself to do anything other than smile. 

There are a lot of things about Iwaizumi that make him smile, more than most people he realizes with a bit of self-flagellation. Oikawa isn’t _easy_ , he knows that. But so far Iwaizumi hasn’t treated him like he’s much-too difficult either. 

It’s a little disorienting, especially considering money had been involved at first (now too, he realizes, but lately it’s felt different all the same). Still, whatever relationship they’ve managed to forge over the last few days has felt more real and genuine than any Oikawa has tried to piece and weld together in the recent past. 

Iwaizumi is honest with him, oftentimes to a fault, but Oikawa cannot help but appreciate it. He’s never once sucked up to him or held Oikawa on a false pedestal, even in any form of seduction. Barring the fact that, in all technicality, Oikawa employs him, Iwaizumi has never once made Oikawa feel as though he’s lording anything over him. And he’s _not_ , but sometimes—well, Oikawa knows how he can be. 

They’d taken the train earlier to Tokyo Gas Gymnasium in Kōtō and now on the return trip the station is bustling with travelers and salarymen making their way home after a stressful week. Oikawa can certainly relate, but Iwaizumi just pokes him in the ribs when he comments on it. 

On the train they stand next to each other, pushed close by the crowds of passengers, sharing a hanging grab-handle above. Oikawa can see straight into Iwaizumi’s eyes, the meager few centimeters separating their height causing him to look down his own nose to admire the flecks of gold painted atop dark green irises. 

When they finally make their way back to the hotel, back a little closer to reality, the light around them is just turning pink, long shadows crawling across the driveway where Oikawa first granted Iwaizumi that initial real step into his life. 

Or at least his life here in Tokyo, on business just for one week. 

Back in the suite Oikawa finds his glasses and orders room service, greasy American food, to munch on in front of the television. It’s something he never does, or at least hasn’t in a long time, but he enjoys the new addition of Iwaizumi on the couch next to him. 

It’s strange, this. Having Iwaizumi here feels natural, more so than he could have thought just a few short days ago. Yet, still the man isn’t a fixture, the week is fleeting, nearly over and when it is this will all become some distant memory. Nothing is permanent, not money, not even his business, certainly not the people in his life. Oikawa knows that well. 

But somehow, the realization that Iwaizumi will be gone soon—that’s the one that gets to him the most. 

“I’m pretty sure we watched this one already,” Iwaizumi murmurs, eyes narrowing at the television as the subtitles roll by.

Oikawa blinks away the glassy stare he hadn’t realized had taken him over. On screen in faded black and white he watches the opening credits, that familiar tune filtering into his mind, comforting. “Iwa-chan, you’re thinking of _The Invaders_.”

Iwaizumi shrugs where he’s slumped back into the cushions. “They all look the same to me at this point.” 

Oikawa giggles, the sound escaping before he can think to stop it. “We don’t have to keep watching, you know.”

Iwaizumi’s head tilts, locking their eyes. “I know,” he says and it’s sincere enough to make Oikawa’s stomach tighten. 

Beneath a pile of too-soft throw blankets, the glow of lamps as the day finally fades to night and Iwaizumi’s warm body, Oikawa drifts, his eyes growing heavy until the television fades to a hum in the darkness of his mind. 

He’s not sure when he actually manages to fall asleep, nor how long he’d been out for, but it’s a gentle palm at his shoulder that pulls him from the dregs of a dream his subconscious is already erasing from memory. 

“Let’s go to bed, Oikawa,” he hears Iwaizumi saying somewhere above him, voice deep and lethargic in its own right. 

Oikawa’s eyelids flutter and a point on the bridge of his nose aches where his glasses have made their mark against his skin. He pushes up on an elbow to find Iwaizumi kneeling on the floor in front of him and it pulls such a vivid reaction from Oikawa, familiar like deja vu. 

Somewhere in Oikawa’s stomach something clenches, butterflies at first but then it heats up, melting and even with the new sensation of arousal Oikawa can’t seem to fully wake up. 

Iwaizumi is watching him with something almost like a frown. He’s concentrating, on what Oikawa isn’t quite sure. “Need me to carry you or something?” Iwaizumi asks, tone half-teasing, and it takes all Oikawa has not to simply nod and take him up on the offer. 

The bed, when he eventually makes it there, is as comfortable and inviting as ever and Oikawa burrows into the pillows and sheets feeling sleepy but now a little restless too. That feeling in his gut has not yet dissipated, though it hasn’t sparked any larger either. 

The mattress dips next to him and Oikawa turns his head, waves of unruly hair falling over his forehead, probably unattractively. He squints, for just a second, glasses laid to rest on the nightstand. “Hi, Hajime,” he says, breathes out barely even a whisper. 

Iwaizumi’s gaze is powerful, intense; it should startle Oikawa, but somehow it only serves to relax him further. He trusts him, he really does. 

Oikawa watches the pink of Iwaizumi tongue as it darts out to run unconsciously against his lower lip. There hadn’t been much distance between them to begin with, but still Iwaizumi leans in a little further, eyes softening and mouth parted and pliant and Oikawa knows he shouldn’t be thinking these things, but—

“Hi, Tooru,” Iwaizumi answers, intimate and velvet; an exchange just for them. 

And then Iwaizumi is kissing him. 

It’s soft, barely a kiss at all really, more like a brush of lips, tentative and hesitant. A question.

Oikawa can hear the little noise that leaves the back of his throat and, as weak and needy as it sounds, he can’t find the energy to be embarrassed by it. 

When Iwaizumi pulls away, Oikawa recognizes the panic in his gaze immediately. He knows that expression well, but he _hates_ the way it looks on Iwaizumi’s features. 

“Please,” Oikawa asks, trying so hard to sound reassuring and confident. “Kiss me, Hajime.” 

It’s just sex, no strings attached. Just sex. That’s what it’s supposed to be, right?

_I really don’t need any unnecessary romantic entanglements this week._

Oikawa’s world tilts on it’s axis with the revelation that he couldn’t have been more wrong. But, he can’t seem to be bothered by that right now because Iwaizumi leans in and kisses him again, _hard_. 

It’s fast and wet at first, full of need and pining and unresolved tension Oikawa hadn’t even realized had been bubbling just beneath the surface all this time. Iwaizumi’s teeth drag against his lip, his tongue dipping into Oikawa’s mouth and they moan at the feeling, at being so close together _finally_. 

Iwaizumi presses his body against Oikawa’s where they lay, working a knee between his thighs and grabbing at the back of Oikawa’s neck to hold him there like he’s afraid the other might change his mind. 

Oikawa won’t, _definitely_ won’t, and makes his intentions clear when he grinds against Iwaizumi, running fingers up his hard, bare chest and sucking at his mouth with abandon. 

They find a rhythm after a minute or two, though time has been at a standstill since Iwaizumi had first brushed his lips over Oikawa’s own so it’s hard to be sure. Their kissing becomes slower, lazy almost, tongues swiping against one another, into each other’s mouths, and over swollen lips. 

The feeling in Oikawa’s stomach is blazing now and he can feel how hard Iwaizumi is against him when they rock together, panting out warm breath over sticky skin between kisses and nips of teasing teeth. 

It’s different than before and there’s no going back now. The time and place they shared before is growing distant by the second and cannot ever be returned to and as terrifying as that is, Oikawa can’t imagine hesitating any longer. 

“I need more,” Oikawa pants out, fingers trailing down warm skin to the waistband of borrowed sweatpants. “I want you to—fuck me, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi’s hips buck up against Oikawa’s touch, a sound hissing between his teeth when Oikawa dips a hand in to grasp at his length. “Yeah,” he pants out, ragged. “Yes, Tooru— _please_.”

The way his given name pours off of Iwaizumi’s tongue, a plea, sends something shivering down Oikawa’s spine. He sucks in a breath, Iwaizumi’s scent filling his nose and he has to strangle down the urge to bury his face into the soft planes of Iwaizumi’s neck.

“But—" Oikawa says, his tongue and brain each vying for control. “But not because I’m paying you—because—”

“Because I _want_ to,” Iwaizumi finishes for him, voice suddenly firm, much firmer than a second before. “I do, Tooru. Do you trust me?”

Oikawa blinks up and finds Iwaizumi’s eyes focused and clear, still clouded at the edges with arousal, but focussed just the same. Oikawa knows, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, that if he pushes away now, changes his mind, Iwaizumi will let him go without hesitation. 

Instead Oikawa nods shakily against the pillow, though his own voice is steady and unwavering. “Yes,” he answers and Iwaizumi moves in to kiss him again. 

Oikawa manages to pull Iwaizumi’s cock from his pants, trying to formulate some kind of rhythm while at the same time falling deeper with each swipe of Iwaizumi’s tongue against his own. 

Then the bed shifts and suddenly Iwaizumi is over Oikawa, caging him in and thrusting against his hand. “Lube,” he murmurs out, trailing lips down Oikawa’s jaw. 

Oikawa slows down his strokes, thumbing absently at the slick pre-cum pooling at the head. “Bathroom,” he instructs. “Condoms too.” 

There’s a hesitant moment wherein Iwaizumi seems unable to quite tear himself away. He lavs a wet stripe down Oikawa’s neck, biting at the juncture of muscle just above his shoulder before pulling away quickly, like if he doesn’t move fast Oikawa might just disappear out from under him.

Oikawa watches him go, feeling a little hazy but still able to admire those lean muscles and the clumsy way Iwaizumi rids himself of his clothing halfway to the master bath. 

It feels like forever, the time Oikawa lays there and waits for Iwaizumi to return. His fingers are trembling and he can’t seem to stop them so instead he just grips at his own pants and shirt, tossing them somewhere on the floor to mingle with Iwaizumi’s own. There’s emotions running over him, through him, and Oikawa clenches his eyes shut attempting to banish them away only to imagine, in the dregs of his memory, Iwaizumi’s lips brushing against his own. 

He’s warm, even naked now he’s _so_ warm. Oikawa takes a second to breathe, to try and calm himself down because he absolutely will not be embarrassed in front of Iwaizumi—so far he’s held his own, but he’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to last tonight, all things considered. His cock twitches when he brushes a hand across it, still slick from where he’d held Iwaizumi and the thought makes him bite back a moan. 

“You okay?” a voice from beside asks, startling him out of whatever fever-dream had commandeered his brain. Oikawa turns and finds Iwaizumi watching him, mostly admiring but also hinting at concern.

“Fine,” Oikawa snaps, probably too harsh and he immediately regrets his impatience, but Iwaizumi’s only reaction is a roll of his eyes, something almost ( _almost_ ) affectionate. Oikawa’s fingers fly to the base of his own cock, squeezing tight. 

“You know, you’re allowed to come more than once,” Iwaizumi says, nearly smug. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind making that happen.” 

It sounds so much like a line, it really does, but the soft smile that accompanies it has Oikawa’s body melting into the mattress and Iwaizumi’s smile only growing bolder. He leans into Oikawa, nudging between his thighs, and trailing hands over his skin, the touch far more tender than anything he’s given so far.

Oikawa licks his lips, unconsciously scooting further into Iwaizumi’s hands. “I _know_ ,” he replies, trying to hide need with petulance. “But right now I want you to _fuck me._ ”

Iwaizumi looks fairly unimpressed, but Oikawa has studied him long enough now to see the amusement in his features, the endearment. “You always get what you want don’t you, Spoiled-kawa?” 

The snap of a cap almost has Oikawa flinching, but he just purses his lips in response to Iwaizumi’s obvious goading. “Yes, I _always_ do—”

Cold, slick fingers swirl against his entrance, effectively cutting the rest of his words straight from his throat. Oikawa grimaces, but doesn’t pull away from the new pressure Iwaizumi presents him with. “Could’ve warmed it up,” Oikawa complains, though it comes out more like a whine.

Iwaizumi hides what sounds like a laugh in the crook of Oikawa’s knee and he presses forward then, teasing a single digit inside. “M'sorry,” he answers, though he doesn’t sound very sorry at all. 

However, Iwaizumi does follow up his meager apology with warm kisses to line the muscle of Oikawa’s inner thigh, trailing a map down to the jut of his hip, so close to Oikawa’s cock that he can feel each puff of air from the man’s parted lips. 

Iwaizumi pushes further into him, a second finger tracing the excess lube around his sensitive rim. Oikawa squirms at the sensation, lips parting with a noise that he’d meant to formulate into some type of demand, so in lieu of words he tries to catch Iwaizumi off guard by thrusting pointedly against his hand. 

But Iwaizumi is quicker, much quicker than Oikawa had been anticipating, and pulls away immediately to sit back on his knees leaving Oikawa feeling hypersensitive and empty. 

“ _Iwa-chan,_ ” he bites, more a gasp than anything. Oikawa glares up through his lashes to find an infuriating smirk hovering over him.

“Here’s the deal,” Iwaizumi says and contrary to that smirk, his words are calm and gentle. “I’m going to take care of you, Tooru. But you have to _let me_.” He reaches out, squeezes Oikawa’s leg reassuringly. “That means giving up some of the control. Can you do that for me?”

Oikawa is starting to feel a little floaty. His cock hasn’t even been properly touched by Iwaizumi yet and still he can feel it leaking against his stomach. He’s not sure that he can do this. All his life Oikawa’s been called manipulative, controlling; he’s not sure he can let go so easily like this. But, if it’s for him—if it’s for Iwaizumi—

“Alright, Hajime.” Oikawa fully relaxes back into the pillows, pulling down every last inch of his mask. “Take care of me, please?”

Iwaizumi answers by crawling forward to take Oikawa’s cock all the way into his mouth, the sensation almost enough to distract from the set of fingers now pushing against Oikawa’s rim. It’s almost too much, the way Iwaizumi sucks him down and opens him up in perfect synchronization and when a finger massages into his prostate Oikawa can’t hold back a whimper, barely able to keep his hips from thrusting further into the heat of Iwaizumi’s mouth.

Oikawa remembers, in this foggy moment of pleasure-high, that this is Iwaizumi and he knows _exactly_ what it is that he’s doing. 

Words trickle out of Oikawa’s mouth and he doesn’t really register them, hopes they’re not anything too embarrassing, but he’s pretty sure Iwaizumi is just as preoccupied at the moment anyways. He thinks about Iwaizumi kissing him earlier, past the implications, and onto the memory of lips gliding against his own. It was so wonderful, so nice, and Oikawa wants to kiss Iwaizumi over and over again like he’s got an addiction. 

Iwaizumi’s tongue swirls up the underside of Oikawa’s cock and his thighs shake, hands twitching to tug at the man’s hair, unsure if he wants to pull him off or pull him deeper. Iwaizumi breathes through his nose, warm against his stomach and eases a third finger inside like it’s nothing. 

Oikawa mewls, can’t stop from thrusting down but Iwaizumi lets him this time, guiding him with a hand against his hip, still effectively in control. Oikawa feels wet and shaky and nearing the edge, eyes fluttering open and closed at their own will, and that’s when Iwaizumi lets go leaving him open and hard and Oikawa practically growls at the loss.

“Ready?” Iwaizumi asks, swiping at a bit of wetness with the back of his hand, mouth red and swollen. 

Oikawa pouts, he knows that’s exactly what he’s doing and he doesn’t actually give a damn. “I thought you said I’m allowed to come more than once,” he manages to spit out around a few unsteady lungfuls. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer right away, busy slicking a condom over his length, until it bounces up over his tight abdomen. But when he finally meets Oikawa’s gaze again, his eyes are dark and burning with desire. 

Swallowing, Oikawa lets Iwaizumi push his legs open wider, watching the man prowl forward, the muscles in his arms moving and tensing beneath his skin made darker by the shadows of the unlit room. When Iwaizumi’s hips smack against his backside, his cock grinding obscenely against Oikawa’s ass, they’re only separated by a few meager inches of distance. 

Iwaizumi bends, curls his tongue against the shell of Oikawa’s ear. “I thought you said you wanted me to _fuck you._ ” 

Oikawa shivers, lets go of something high pitched and uneven from the back of his throat. “Please, Hajime.” 

Iwaizumi indulges him, pushes forward with ease, and maybe it’s because he’s right and Oikawa _does_ always get what he wants—or maybe it’s something else altogether. 

Somewhere along the line Oikawa closes his eyes, the darkness behind his lids allowing his body to relax and take everything Iwaizumi has to give him until he can go no further, until they are wholly connected. This is when Oikawa’s eyes finally open again and he’s greeted by Iwaizumi’s features, soft with pleasure and something Oikawa would rather leave unidentified for the time being. 

He cants his hips a little, just testing the angle and Iwaizumi’s grip on his hips tightens with the movement. “You can move,” Oikawa says, less demanding than before.

Iwaizumi nods, but he doesn’t move, not even a little bit. Instead he just stares down at Oikawa, each breath a little wavering. It makes Oikawa wonder, for a brief moment, when the last time Iwaizumi had done this, as odd as that idea was, considering his line of work. But still, he wonders. 

Finally, Iwaizumi relents, pulling out nearly all the way and slamming back into Oikawa like he hadn’t been hesitating at all. Oikawa gasps something strangled, hands scrabbling at Iwaizumi’s shoulders and nails surely leaving their mark as Iwaizumi begins to thrust into him, seemingly in time with their rapidly beating hearts. 

Iwaizumi leans into him, licking at the plush of his lower lip, asking for permission and Oikawa grants him it, pressing his mouth firmly against Iwaizumi and kissing him fully. 

They kiss like they’re starving, ravenous. Like they hadn’t just kissed like this minutes before. Oikawa sucks at Iwaizumi’s tongue. Iwaizumi bites at Oikawa’s lips, soft and almost playful. They kiss and kiss and when their breathing becomes more ragged, Iwaizumi licks down Oikawa’s jaw to his neck, chasing his racing pulse and making Oikawa moan. 

Iwaizumi’s thrusts have slowed and they rock together, Oikawa meeting him nearly halfway. It doesn’t take much, a minor change of angle, the press of thumbs into the soft skin of his thighs and again Oikawa is close. 

“I-I need—” Oikawa pants out, _begs_ because there’s no other way to put it. 

Immediately there’s a hand trailing up the hardness of his cock, fingers pressing into the slick covered head. “I know,” Iwaizumi breathes against the sticky skin of his neck. 

Oikawa bucks into the touch and Iwaizumi’s wrist flicks, palm large and rough against Oikawa’s sensitive skin until he’s practically pulling the orgasm right out of him. They’re both shaking now and so close, so damn close—

Oikawa finds Iwaizumi’s eyes, half-lidded but still watching him, steady and close. 

He realizes hazily that, face-to-face like this, it’s almost overwhelming. It’s counter to everything Oikawa had imagined up until this point, but then he remembers what he’d said, what Iwaizumi had said. They’re not fucking because it’s Iwaizumi’s job—they’re _just_ —

Iwaizumi’s hips stutter and Oikawa stills, shuddering through his release until he’s gone—just _gone_. 

In so many more ways than he ever thought possible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is definitely...different. It turned out way softer than I'd anticipated. Anyways, let me know what you thought of it!
> 
> Also, this is slated for only one more chapter. So far that's the plan, but we'll see...


End file.
